THE BURIAL OF KING EDWARD, THE PEACE-MAKER
All day the league long lines have onward marched;
Mourn the sad millions round the silent bier,
Where rests beneath the temple, nobly arched,
The form a worldwide people held most dear.
The sombre pageant darkens all the land.
The seven Kings in mournful grandeur ride,
Kings of the earth must bow to death's command;
Happy the Prince who heeds nor builds on pride!
Happy the land, that in such mournful hour
Can through the tears of parting proudly say,
As we, he wrought each instrument of power
For good, and o'er his people's hearts held sway.
Shaping his efforts ever toward this end,
That e'en the alien learned to bless his name,
Healing the wounds red war had made, a friend
To arts of peace, that is his crowning fame.
Peacemaker, rest among thy kingly sires;
Peace was thy shrine, and never war's array,
Nor glories reared on force were thy desires;
Thy strength was given to shield, and not to slay.
Dead King, thy noblest triumph here is made.
Who claims such tribute from a mighty state
Reigns on; a sceptred king, though in death laid,
And dying lives, beloved, immortal, great.
May, 1911.