The Book of Odes, by L. Cranmer-Byng, [1908]
Even as a little helpless child am I,
On whom hath fallen the perplexed affairs
Of this unsettled state. High loneliness
And sorrow are my portion. Thou great Father,
Thou kingly pattern of parental awe,
Whose mind for ever in the courts beheld,
Roaming, the royal image of thy sire,
Night long and day long, I—the little child—
Will so be reverent.
O ye great kings!
Your crowned successor crowns you in his heart.
Live unforgotten. Here, upon the verge
Of the momentous years, I pause and trace
The shining footsteps of my forefathers,
And the far-distant goal that drew them on—
Too distant for my range. Howe’er resolved
I may go forward, lo! a thousand tracks
Cause me to swerve aside. A little child—
Only a little child—I am too frail
To cope with the anxieties of state
And cares of king-craft. Yet I will ascend
[paragraph continues] Into my Father's room, and through the courts
Below, for ever seeking, I will pass,
To brush the skirts of inspiration
And touch the sleeves of memory.
O great
And gracious Father, hear and condescend
To guard, to cherish, to enlighten me.