Volume 8 — 1847
Reading edition
ODE, PERFORMED IN THE SENATE-HOUSE, CAMBRIDGE, ON THE 6TH OF JULY 1847, AT THE FIRST COMMENCEMENT AFTER THE INSTALLATION OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE ALBERT, CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY.[429]
INSTALLATION ODE
Composed 1847.—Published 1847.
INTRODUCTION AND CHORUS For thirst of power that Heaven disowns, For temples, towers, and thrones, Too long insulted by the Spoiler’s shock, Indignant Europe cast Her stormy foe at last To reap the whirlwind on a Libyan rock. SOLO.—TENOR War is passion’s basest game Madly played to win a name; Up starts some tyrant, Earth and Heaven to dare; The servile million bow; But will the lightning glance aside to spare The Despot’s laurelled brow? CHORUS War is mercy, glory, fame, Waged in Freedom’s holy cause; Freedom, such as Man may claim Under God’s restraining laws. Such is Albion’s fame and glory: Let rescued Europe tell the story. RECIT. (accompanied).—CONTRALTO But lo, what sudden cloud has darkened all The land as with a funeral pall? The Rose of England suffers blight, The flower has drooped, the Isle’s delight, Flower and bud together fall— A Nation’s hopes lie crushed in Claremont’s desolate hall. AIR.—SOPRANO Time a chequered mantle wears;— Earth awakes from wintry sleep; Again the Tree a blossom bears,— Cease, Britannia, cease to weep! Hark to the peals on this bright May-morn! They tell that your future Queen is born! SOPRANO SOLO AND CHORUS A Guardian Angel fluttered Above the Babe, unseen; One word he softly uttered— It named the future Queen: And a joyful cry through the Island rang, As clear and bold as the trumpet’s clang, As bland as the reed of peace— “VICTORIA be her name!” For righteous triumphs are the base Whereon Britannia rests her peaceful fame. QUARTETT Time, in his mantle’s sunniest fold, Uplifted in his arms the child; And, while the fearless Infant smiled, Her happier destiny foretold:— “Infancy, by Wisdom mild, Trained to health and artless beauty; Youth, by Pleasure unbeguiled From the lore of lofty duty; Womanhood in pure renown, Seated on her lineal throne: Leaves of myrtle in her Crown, Fresh with lustre all their own. Love, the treasure worth possessing More than all the world beside, This shall be her choicest blessing, Oft to royal hearts denied.” RECIT. (accompanied).—BASS That eve, the Star of Brunswick shone With stedfast ray benign On Gotha’s ducal roof, and on The softly flowing Leine; Nor failed to gild the spires of Bonn, And glittered on the Rhine.— Old Camus too on that prophetic night Was conscious of the ray; And his willows whispered in its light, Not to the Zephyr’s sway, But with a Delphic life, in sight Of this auspicious day: CHORUS This day, when Granta hails her chosen Lord, And proud of her award, Confiding in the Star serene Welcomes the Consort of a happy Queen. AIR.—CONTRALTO Prince, in these Collegiate bowers, Where Science, leagued with holier truth, Guards the sacred heart of youth, Solemn monitors are ours. These reverend aisles, these hallowed towers, Raised by many a hand august, Are haunted by majestic Powers, The memories of the Wise and Just, Who, faithful to a pious trust, Here, in the Founder’s spirit sought To mould and stamp the ore of thought In that bold form and impress high That best betoken patriot loyalty. Not in vain those Sages taught.— True disciples, good as great, Have pondered here their country’s weal, Weighed the Future by the Past, Learned how social frames may last, And how a Land may rule its fate By constancy inviolate, Though worlds to their foundations reel, The sport of factious Hate or godless Zeal. AIR.—BASS Albert, in thy race we cherish A Nation’s strength that will not perish While England’s sceptered Line True to the King of Kings is found; Like that Wise[430] Ancestor of thine Who threw the Saxon shield o’er Luther’s life, When first, above the yells of bigot strife, The trumpet of the Living Word Assumed a voice of deep portentous sound From gladdened Elbe to startled Tiber heard. CHORUS What shield more sublime E’er was blazoned or sung? And the PRINCE whom we greet From its Hero is sprung. Resound, resound the strain That hails him for our own! Again, again, and yet again; For the Church, the State, the Throne!— And that Presence fair and bright, Ever blest wherever seen, Who deigns to grace our festal rite, The pride of the Islands, VICTORIA THE QUEEN!
TO MISS SELLON
This sonnet exists, in Wordsworth’s handwriting; but it is doubtful whether it was written by him, or not. Possibly Mr. Quillinan wrote it. The place, and the date of composition—given in MS.—are, “Ambleside, 22nd February, 1849.” Miss Sellon was a relation of the late Count Cavour.—Ed.
The vestal priestess of a sisterhood who knows No self, and whom the selfish scorn— She seeks a wilderness of weed and thorn, And, undiverted from the blessed mood By keen reproach or blind ingratitude, 5 A wreath she twines of blossoms lowly born— An amaranthine crown of flowers forlorn— And hangs her garland on the Holy Rood. Sister of Mercy, bravely hast thou won From men who winnow charity from Faith 10 The Pharasaic sneer that treats as dross The works by faith ordained. Pursue thy path, Till, at the last, thou hear the voice—“Well done, Thou good and faithful servant of the Cross.”
“THE WORSHIP OF THIS SABBATH MORN”
By Dorothy Wordsworth
These lines were published in The Monthly Packet, in July 1891, where the following note is appended by Miss Christabel Coleridge:—“Written circa 1852-3, and given to Mrs. Derwent Coleridge.” But Miss Edith Coleridge, and Mr. E. H. Coleridge, tell me that they think they “belong to an earlier period.” Mr. Coleridge writes, “I have heard Miss Wordsworth repeat the lines now printed, seated in her arm-chair, on the terrace at Rydal Mount.”—Ed.
The worship of this Sabbath morn, How sweetly it begins! With the full choral hymn of birds Mingles no sad lament for sins. Alas! my feet no more may join 5 The cheerful Sabbath train; But if I inwardly lament, Oh! may a will subdued all grief restrain. No prisoner am I on this couch, My mind is free to roam, 10 And leisure, peace, and loving friends, Are the best treasures of an earthly home. Such gifts are mine, then why deplore The body’s slow decay? A warning mercifully sent 15 To fix my hopes upon a surer stay.