THE INVESTITURE.
Be silent, guns! for Bernard is invested,
And wheresoe'er the slaves of strife are found
Let your grim offices be now arrested,
Nor the hot rifle shoot another round,
Nor the pale flarelights toss,
But for a space all devilry be barred,
While Mars hangs motionless in pleased regard
And the hushed lines look West to Palace Yard,
Where on his breast our KING has pinned the Cross.
Oft in the Mess have we rehearsed that moment,
In old French farms have staged the Royal Square,
Or in cool caves by Germans made at Beaumont,
Though there indeed we had no space to spare,
So lifelike was it all,
And when KING GEORGE (the Padre's hard to beat
In that great rôle), surrounded by his suite,
Pinned on the cover of the potted meat,
The very Hippodrome had seemed too small.
Or we would act the homing of our Hector,
Flushed up with pride beneath the ancestral fir,
The cheering rustics and the sweet old Rector
Welcoming back "our brave parishioner;"
And since the lad was shy
We made him get some simple phrases pat
To thank them for the Presentation Bat,
While Maud stood near (the Adjutant did that),
So overcome that she could only sigh.
Ah! Bernard, say our pageants were not wasted,
Not vain the Adjutant's laborious blush!
Was it to Maud this glowing morn you hasted
With yonder bauble in its bed of plush—
Or was it that Miss Blake?
Say not you faced, with ill-concealed dismay,
Your thronging townsmen and had nought to say,
Or from your KING stepped tremblingly away
With someone else's Order by mistake!
Surely you shamed us not! for all that splendour
Can scarce have been more moving to the heart
Than our glad rites, the Princess not so tender
As was myself, who always took that part;
I cannot think the KING,
Nor gorgeous Lords, nor Officers of State,
Nor seedy people peering through the gate,
Felt half so proud or so affectionate
As those far friends when we arranged the thing.
A.P.H.