#WingedWordsWindsday: 2023/09/06 -- Remembering Queen Elizabeth II

 

WINGED WORDS WINDSDAY

Compiled &Edited by Rob Chappell (@RHCLambengolmo)

Vol. 2, No. 45: September 6, 2023

 

 

Poems to Commemorate the First Yahrzeit of Queen Elizabeth II

Editor’s Note

                This week’s garland of poems is presented in honor of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II of the United Kingdom (reigned 1952-2022), who reposed at Balmoral Castle in Scotland on Thursday, September 8, 2022.

 

“Puck’s Song”

By Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

 

See you the ferny ride that steals

Into the oak-woods far?

O that was whence they hewed the keels

That rolled to Trafalgar.

 

And mark you where the ivy clings

To Bayham's moldering walls?

O there we cast the stout railings

That stand around St. Paul's.

 

See you the dimpled track that runs

All hollow through the wheat?

O that was where they hauled the guns

That smote King Philip's fleet.

 

(Out of the Weald, the secret Weald,

Men sent in ancient years,

The horse-shoes red at Flodden Field,

The arrows at Poitiers!)

 

See you our little mill that clacks,

So busy by the brook?

She has ground her corn and paid her tax

Ever since Domesday Book.

 

See you our stilly woods of oak,

And the dread ditch beside?

O that was where the Saxons broke

On the day that Harold died.

 

See you the windy levels spread

About the gates of Rye?

O that was where the Northmen fled,

When Alfred's ships came by.

 

See you our pastures wide and lone,

Where the red oxen browse?

O there was a City thronged and known,

Ere London boasted a house.

 

And see you, after rain, the trace

Of mound and ditch and wall?

O that was a Legion's camping-place,

When Caesar sailed from Gaul.

 

And see you marks that show and fade,

Like shadows on the Downs?

O they are the lines the Flint Men made,

To guard their wondrous towns.

 

Trackway and Camp and City lost,

Salt Marsh where now is corn-

Old Wars, old Peace, old Arts that cease,

And so was England born.

 

She is not any common Earth,

Water or wood or air,

But Merlin's Isle of Gramarye,

Where you and I will fare.

 

“Jerusalem”

By William Blake (1757-1827)

 

And did those feet in ancient time

Walk upon England’s mountains green:

And was the holy Lamb of God,

On England’s pleasant pastures seen!

 

And did the Countenance Divine,

Shine forth upon our clouded hills?

And was Jerusalem builded here,

Among these dark Satanic Mills?

 

Bring me my Bow of burning gold:

Bring me my arrows of desire:

Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!

Bring me my Chariot of fire!

 

I will not cease from Mental Fight,

Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand:

Till we have built Jerusalem,

In England’s green and pleasant Land.

 

The hill of Glastonbury Tor in Somerset, SW England, traditionally regarded as the site of the earliest Christian community in Britain, founded during the 1^st century CE by Joseph of Arimathea, his disciples, and their families. (Image Credit: Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)

 

“In Honor of That High and Mighty Princess, Queen Elizabeth”

By Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672)

 

Proem

Although great Queen, thou now in silence lie,

Yet thy loud Herald Fame, doth to the sky

Thy wondrous worth proclaim, in every clime,

And so has vowed, whilst there is world or time.

So great’s thy glory, and thine excellence,

The sound thereof raps every human sense

That men account it no impiety

To say thou wert a fleshly Deity.

Thousands bring offerings (though out of date)

Thy world of honors to accumulate.

‘Mongst hundred Hecatombs of roaring Verse,

‘Mine bleating stands before thy royal Hearse.

Thou never didst, nor canst thou now disdain,

T’ accept the tribute of a loyal Brain.

Thy clemency did yerst esteem as much

The acclamations of the poor, as rich,

Which makes me deem, my rudeness is no wrong,

Though I resound thy greatness ‘mongst the throng.

 

The Poem

No Phoenix Pen, nor Spenser’s Poetry,

No Speed’s, nor Camden’s learned History;

Eliza’s works, wars, praise, can e’re compact,

The World’s the Theater where she did act.

No memories, nor volumes can contain,

The nine Olympiads of her happy reign,

Who was so good, so just, so learned, so wise,

From all the Kings on earth she won the prize.

Nor say I more than truly is her due.

Millions will testify that this is true.

She hath wiped off the’ aspersion of her Sex,

That women wisdom lack to play the Rex.

Spain’s Monarch says not so, not yet his Host:

She taught them better manners to their cost.

The Salic Law had not in force now been,

If France had ever hoped for such a Queen.

But can you Doctors now this point dispute,

She’s argument enough to make you mute,

Since first the Sun did run, his ne’er runned race,

And earth had twice a year, a new old face;

Since time was time, and man unmanly man,

Come shew me such a Phoenix if you can.

Was ever people better ruled than hers?

Was ever Land more happy, freed from stirs?

Did ever wealth in England so abound?

Her Victories in foreign Coasts resound?

Ships more invincible than Spain’s, her foe

She racked, she sacked, she sunk his Armadoe.

Her stately Troops advanced to Lisbon’s wall,

Don Anthony in’s right for to install.

She frankly helped Franks’ (brave) distressed King,

The States united now her fame do sing.

She their Protectrix was, they well do know,

Unto our dread Virago, what they owe.

Her Nobles sacrificed their noble blood,

Nor men, nor coin she shaped, to do them good.

The rude untamed Irish she did quell,

And Tiron bound, before her picture fell.

Had ever Prince such Counsellors as she?

Her self Minerva caused them so to be.

Such Soldiers, and such Captains never seen,

As were the subjects of our (Pallas) Queen:

Her Sea-men through all straits the world did round,

Terra incognitæ might know her sound.

Her Drake came laded home with Spanish gold,

Her Essex took Cadiz, their Herculean hold.

But time would fail me, so my wit would too,

To tell of half she did, or she could do.

Semiramis to her is but obscure;

More infamy than fame she did procure.

She placed her glory but on Babel’s walls,

World's wonder for a time, but yet it falls.

Fierce Tomris (Cyrus’ Heads-man, Scythians’ Queen)

Had put her Harness off, had she but seen

Our Amazon i’ the’ Camp at Tilbury,

(Judging all valor, and all Majesty)

Within that Princess to have residence,

And prostrate yielded to her Excellence.

Dido first Foundress of proud Carthage walls

(Who living consummates her Funerals),

A great Eliza, but compared with ours,

How vanisheth her glory, wealth, and powers.

Proud profuse Cleopatra, whose wrong name,

Instead of glory, proved her Country’s shame:

Of her what worth in Story’s to be seen,

But that she was a rich Egyptian Queen.

Zenobia, potent Empress of the East,

And of all these without compare the best

(Whom none but great Aurelius could quell)

Yet for our Queen is no fit parallel:

She was a Phoenix Queen, so shall she be,

Her ashes not revived more Phoenix she.

Her personal perfections, who would tell,

Must dip his Pen i’ the’ Heliconian Well,

Which I may not, my pride doth but aspire

To read what others write and then admire.

Now say, have women worth, or have they none?

Or had they some, but with our Queen is’t gone?

Nay Masculines, you have thus taxed us long,

But she, though dead, will vindicate our wrong.

Let such as say our sex is void of reason

Know ‘tis a slander now, but once was treason.

But happy England, which had such a Queen,

O happy, happy, had those days still been,

But happiness lies in a higher sphere.

Then wonder not, Eliza moves not here.

Full fraught with honor, riches, and with days,

She set, she set, like Titan in his rays.

No more shall rise or set such glorious Sun,

Until the heaven’s great revolution:

If then new things, their old form must retain,

Eliza shall rule Albian once again.

 

Her Epitaph

Here sleeps THE Queen, this is the royal bed

O’ the’ Damask Rose, sprung from the white and red,

Whose sweet perfume fills the all-filling air,

This Rose is withered, once so lovely fair:

On neither tree did grow such Rose before,

The greater was our gain, our loss the more.

 

Another

Here lies the pride of Queens, pattern of Kings:

So blaze it fame, here’s feathers for thy wings.

Here lies the envied, yet unparalleled Prince,

Whose living virtues speak (though dead long since).

If many worlds, as that fantastic framed,

In everyone, be her great glory famed.

 

Britomart is a female knight in Sir Edmund Spenser’s (1552-1599) epic English poem, The Faerie Queen (published 1590-1596), which he dedicated to Queen Elizabeth I (reigned 1558-1603). Image Credit: Walter Crane (1845-1915), from a 1900 edition of The Faerie Queen.