  Let gladness fill our British homes, All hearts rejoice! a victor comes:— Not like the conquerors of yore With laurels stained by human gore. Let earth a floral welcome yield, No devastation marks the field Whereon his victory was gained, His triumph’s peaceful and unstained. Let little children’s voices rise, For no discordant orphans cries Shall mar their glee. His deeds, though great, And pregnant with the will of fate, Are heralds of a happier day, And pure and innocent as they. Let gentle ladies lend their cheers, His conquest’s free from widow’s tears; Let manly voices swell the strain, His course is not o’er brother’s slain; No soldiers scarred and maimed proclaim A bloody source of all his fame. His triumph is o’er ancient wrong, O’er prejudices old and strong, Time honoured; time dishonouring— Peace, Justice, Hope, ’tis his to bring. Children of loyal men! ’tis meet Your cherub voices fresh and sweet Should rise to heaven in welcome cheers; For when in your maturer years The seed ’tis his blest work to sow Shall spring up round you—with you grow, Your future, happier destiny. Your voices then much deeper grown, Shall tell to children, then your own, How Wodehouse and his noble dame ’Midst shouts of infant welcome came; How ranged like soldiers on the green You sang “God save our Gracious Queen.” He comes like meteor bright and bold, Scorning the track traversed of old By orbs whose fastly waning light Is sinking in the realms of night. He seeks the cradle of the dawn, Where Freedom’s sun proclaims the morn— This day we’ll give to joy at least; This day the light dawns in the East, And soon beneath its genial ray North, South, East, West, shall feel ’tis day. H. W. Bidwell. Grahamstown, Feb. 1, 1864. [Image of decorative bar not available.] |
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