To The Coronation Chair and Scottish Stone
In Westminster Abbey.
"Ni fallat fatum, Scoti, quocunque locatum
Invenient lapidem, regnare tenentur ibidem."
"Ni fallat fatum, Scoti, quocunque locatum
Invenient lapidem, regnare tenentur ibidem."
A worn and battered ancient chair,
And underneath a rough-cut stone--
With earnest eyes I gaze, for there
Before me stands the Kingdom's throne.
O famous chair, Pride sure in thee
Apes modest-mien'd Humility.
Let foreign potentates delight
To sit enthroned on silver bright,
Or ivory, or burnished gold,
With woof in glowing hues enrolled,
To win the eye, and captivate
The ceremonial-loving State;
We envy not their bravery
And costly wares, for he have Thee.
For hast thou not, time-honoured chair,
So void of ornament and bare,
Held Saxon Edward, Monarch just,
Devout and great, whose precious dust
Is shrin'ed nigh? And Edward gone,
Hast thou not been the chosen throne
Of England's sov'reigns? O the fame,
The glory, and, alas! the blame,
That circle thee; as I behold
They frame-work, quaint, and frail, and old,
Memory recalls the royal race
Who dignified that resting-place;
Imagination fills the throne
With Monarchs, centuries agone
To dust resolved; yet standeth there
The prize they lusted for--that chair.
Fitly dost thou, O Throne, remain
In noble England's noblest Fane,
With royal relics clustered round
This precious consecrated ground,
And where beyond are proudly laid
The ashes of th' illustrious dead,
The men of action and of thought,
Whose labours gained this resting spot.
O England's pride, most stately Pile!
On fretted roof, and lengthy aisle,
On architecture chaste and rare,
On arch and pillar carved with care,
On storied monument I gaze
In rapture mingled with amaze.
England! I envy not this shrine,
For all it holds is justly thine.
All, said I? Sure old England's throne
Without a prop can stand alone.
What need of buttress to uprear
A seat to all the nation dear?
This homely Scottish "Stone of Fate"
That lurks beneath, no fitting mate
Remains for England's proudest chair,
And wherefore keep it prisoned there?
This tomb of Kings, this famous spot
I rev'rence, but I envy not;
Medallion, monument, and bust,
Religious vault, and precious dust,
These be the Abbey's sacred Trust.
I only crave - 'tis Scotland's own --
This modest, rough-hewn, ancient stone
That, out of place, is shadowed by
The sister-kingdom's Royalty.
Some tell, O stone, that Jacob's head
On thee, a pillow rude, was laid
At Bethel, whence to him 'twas given
To view the outer gate of Heaven
In holy vision; some relate
That warlike Fergus, fortunate
In holding thee, from Erin's Isle
Triumphant brought thee to Argyle.
Others declare thou wert the throne
Of restless ancient Caledon,
And till the King was crowned on thee
No Caledonian King was he.
No antiquarian lore is mine,
And yet I view this homely shrine
Of Scotland ancient royalty
With wistful reverential eye,
For well I know I gaze upon
The veritable Scottish throne,
Whereon were crowned in regal Scone
King after King from times remote,
Until the "Scottish Hammer" brought
Thee, humbled, to this resting-place,
To lend the sister-kingdom grace.
Mysterious stone! To Scotland dear,
The fate of war that brought thee here
A trophy, kept thee jealously,
And England throned her Kings on thee
In memory of Edward's thrall,
Proud of his conquest mystical.
'Twas fitly done, till from the North
The Stuart King was summoned forth
To reign with undivided sway,
And sweep all rivalries away;
Their bitter feuds and discords done,
Became the sister kingdoms one,
With one liege Lord to regulate
And harmonise the common state;
Two nations independent, yet
Together for advantage met.
Occasion fitting to translate
This trophied Scottish stone of Fate
To Scottish soil, boon frank and free,
Token of lasting amity,
Obliterating thus with grace
Ancient Hostility's last trace;
"Her own to each," all discord past,
Peace and tranquility at last.
The Stuart made no sign - for him
This solemn spot, religious, dim,
Silent and grand, a charm posses't,
And his cold selfish heart impress't.
The mystic stone he shifted not
Back to its proper resting spot;
At his command this Abbey gave
His Mother-Queen a tardy grave,
And here his royal self was laid
Proudly in Wisdom's vaulted bed,
For side by side his ashes lie
(He willed it so) in honour high
With the first Tudor's - whimsey odd --
A pigmy by a demigod.
And still remaineth here this stone,
Trophy of war, where war is none.
Long have the sister realms been one,
Long have their enmities been done;
The circlet all unneeded now
That on the Northern Monarch's brow
Rested of old - the ensigns high,
Sceptre and sword, of royalty --
A precious charge - are guarded well
In Scotland's proudest citadel;
In order all are set; alone
Is wanting Scotland's ancient throne
To link with ages long gone bye
Our lov'ed Nation's history.
May Justice, welcome although late,
Restore our precious Stone of Fate;
No proper station hath it there
Beneath the Saxon Edward's chair;
The fitting place for Scotland's throne
Is side by side with Scotland's crown.
The mystic Southern mission long is done.
For long time have the rival realms been one,
And Scotland may with safety claim her own.
I'd love to have you drop by!--Barbara