The Poetical Works of George Barlow :: :: University of Virginia Library

While they left the grey old island sung by Shakespeare by their harps unsung
England still to thee was flower-crowned, still the splendour on her brow was young:

Still for thee her clear waves sparkled with a phraseless magic all their own;
Freedom, quitting snowier summits, held the peaks of England like a throne.

Freedom to the world-wide peoples spake, thou thoughtest, never mightier word
Than the lips of Milton uttered, than among the lone hills Wordsworth heard.

At thy very dawn of singing—far o'er English waves the music rolled—
Thou didst sing the dawn of Maytime, when the kingcups pave the land with gold.

Through a thousand years of history, England's joyous history it may be,
English hearts will read thy “May-queen”—as they read it, thrill with love for thee.

Never yet the soul of poet, full of passion of spring's lovely prime,
Wove within the enmeshed fair verses more of sweetness of the fragrant time:

Sweetness of the bright May season, and a sweetness tenderer than of May,
Girlish sweetness of the May-queen, queen of all the green land for a day.

Queen too, when the sad song ended, of the skies of death she filled with light,
Crowning darkness with new starshine, maiden-empress of the impervious night.

That was when thy singing lightened first upon the land it was to claim,
Hold with all the spell of genius, all the magic of a mighty name.

Then to other queens thou turnedst, adding yet another deathless word
To the praise of Cleopatra which the unwearying centuries have heard:

Making with thy marvellous music earth's fair passionate daughters fairer far,
Joining to their crowns for ever yet another matchless lyric star.

When the centuries, gazing backward, take account of this our century's song
Though but few songs be remembered, clear will ring thy music, sweet and strong.

Thou with Hugo and with Browning then wilt win time's great approving word,
This, that through thy stately singing ever hope's exhilarant note was heard:

This, that as on Browning, Hugo, though the century darkened with despair
Still on thee heaven's pure light glittered, still to thee heaven's mountain-heights were fair.

Still, for all the scowls of Science, sombre power tyrannic for awhile,
Thou didst see beyond the ephemeral darkness radiant morning's golden smile:

Morning flashing on the nations, vast exultant morning yet to be,
Morning, when the ships of battle yield to ships of commerce on the sea;

Morning, when the Russian midnight owns the conquering sun its lord at last,
When the days of kings and prisons, hours of chains and tyrants, all are past;

Morning, when through Afric's deserts wind no longer, bleeding as they crawl,
Slaves who spot the tawny sand-waste with yet redder patches as they fall;

Morning, when the people's mandate bids us only crown and recognize
Valour, wisdom, stainless merit, and the soul that flames from genius' eyes;

Morning, when the love of woman wins at last in that far future hour
Scope and room, and right to blossom forth from lovely bud to lovelier flower;

Morning, when man's love, developed, manlier now for touch of gentle grace,
Treading down the brute within it, looks with godlike eyes in woman's face;

Morning, when God's worship merges, as with Christ that nobler creed began,
In the service of our fellows, in the limitless pure love of man;

Morning, when the Churches teach us, not their bitter parties' rallying-cry,
But the wonders of the gospel preached from star to star across the sky,—

Marvels of the mighty mountains, shadowy lessons of the purple deep,
Secrets of the impassioned summer whose soft kisses lull the winds to sleep;

These are morning's far-off glories—these, O singer, thou didst recognize;
As in trance on earth thou sawest them, now thou seest with fully awakened eyes.