Page:Alexandrina Victoria - 18th Birthday Tribute.pdf/12

   Not this the first time that our lion and land
Have own'd the soft sway of a woman's white hand;
She the last branch of the Tudor's proud line
Held empire—an omen of glory for thine:
The name of Elizabeth tells of an age
Alone in its splendour on history's page.
   'Twas then the mind burst from its slumbers, and broke
The depth of its shade, the weight of its yoke;
And thoughts that lay dark, like the seeds in the earth,
Sprung up into varied and beautiful birth:
Whence, grown 'mid all changes of good and of ill,
We reap a rich harvest for garnering still.
For thoughts are like waves that come rushing to shore,
One breaks into many—is follow'd by more;
   Then came the doom'd Spaniard, the last one, whose boast.
The white cliffs have echo'd that girdle our coast.