The Banquet

The summer crept from May to June, When flow’rs yield most their perfumes sweet, And add their charms to the saloon, To make the banquet-room complete.

See: there they are, of every hue, Of every cast, in aspect rare; All greeting all who deign to view, And smiling on the happy pair.

Their meet companions all attend— Those crownèd giants of the pine,— And in their place, beneath them, bend The goodly tenants of the vine.

Those purple cisterns, fill’d to brim, (And those green beauties by their side,) Enrich the little seas that swim In goblets, through the eventide.

’Round golden pedestals they cling, Among th’ elect of every fruit: Hear they, as ’twere, the glasses ting; Burst they with joy, yet they are mute.

Their turn is come—O, happy fate!— A kindly hand assists them down; They garnish well the polish’d plate, Until their fairy-life is flown.

Now listen to the harmony— Those compliments of courteous love: Observe how wondrous loyally And royally the things do move!

The banquet-board bore on its face Profusion’s burden of choice store: The hostess loan’d her wonted grace— Enhanc’d by the gay garb she wore:

And by her side, on her right hand, The son of England’s cherish’d Queen,— Prince Edward, of all Britain’s land: None fairer of his sex are seen.

Glance o’er the board—behold the host, (Whom this fair Prince doth honour well,) Though years he numbereth the most, In wit and wisdom none excel:

On his right hand, eyes sparkling bright, Sat Alexandra, England’s own.— She saw, was seen, and spell’d the night: Yet there were other stars that shone,

Whose smiling countenances glowed With love, and hope, and charity; Within whose bosoms freely flowed The stream which mark’d their ancestry,—

Of ancestors who scared the foe With swords and bucklers, armour bent, Swift arrows from well-bended bow, Or matchlock leaden bullets sent;

Whose loyalty unto the crown, When dangers frown’d at home, abroad, Brought kingly gratulations down, And blessings from Almighty God.

Have ceased those feudal wars of yore,— When heritages were purloin’d, Or purchas’d with death’s clotted gore, To satisfy th’ insatiate mind.

Now peace, triumphant, fill’d each heart; The rosy wine-cup teem’d with pride; The banquetees had met to part:— Gone, gone is this blithe eventide!