The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | V. |
| I. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVI. |
| XLVII. |
| XLVIII. |
| XLIX. |
| L. |
| LI. |
| LII. |
| LIII. |
| LIV. |
| LV. |
| LVI. |
| LVII. |
| LVIII. |
| LIX. |
| LX. |
| LXI. |
| LXII. |
| LXIII. |
| LXIV. |
| LXV. |
| LXVI. |
| LXVII. |
| LXVIII. |
| LXIX. |
| LXX. |
| LXXI. |
| LXXII. |
| LXXIII. |
| LXXIV. |
| LXXV. |
| LXXVI. |
| LXXVII. |
| LXXVIII. |
| LXXIX. |
| LXXX. |
| LXXXI. |
| LXXXII. |
| LXXXIII. |
| LXXXIV. |
| III. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
238
SONNET VI
THE UNSEEN STRUGGLE
It may be that on England's fate depends
The future of the planet. Here, maybe,
Beside our English hills, our English sea,
Struggle vast forces for stupendous ends.
Beyond our gaze the unseen strife extends,
Far past the stars, to dim futurity,—
And something of defeat or victory
With England's mighty life our own life blends.
The future of the planet. Here, maybe,
Beside our English hills, our English sea,
Struggle vast forces for stupendous ends.
Beyond our gaze the unseen strife extends,
Far past the stars, to dim futurity,—
And something of defeat or victory
With England's mighty life our own life blends.
Titanic battling earthly battle implies.
Our puny cannons whisper, but huge hosts
Wield the grim thunders of the awful skies.
Who knows what breathless part with good or ill,
With angel warriors or accurséd ghosts,
England may take? The road lies open still.
Our puny cannons whisper, but huge hosts
Wield the grim thunders of the awful skies.
Who knows what breathless part with good or ill,
With angel warriors or accurséd ghosts,
England may take? The road lies open still.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |