The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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| II. |
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| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
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| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
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| XIV. |
| XV. |
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| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
SONNET XVIII
A LAST WORD |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
280
SONNET XVIII
A LAST WORD
O England, whom my spirit longed to aid,
Supremely loving every plain and hill,
Each flower within green forest, each clear rill,
Each thyme-sweet bank, each bower, each breeze-kissed glade,
A sense of some vast mandate disobeyed
Seems through my heart at this last hour to thrill
With pain unutterable. My country still
Thou art,—but what strange dreams thy soul degrade!
Supremely loving every plain and hill,
Each flower within green forest, each clear rill,
Each thyme-sweet bank, each bower, each breeze-kissed glade,
A sense of some vast mandate disobeyed
Seems through my heart at this last hour to thrill
With pain unutterable. My country still
Thou art,—but what strange dreams thy soul degrade!
Love,—honour,—justice,—these seem words most vain,
Most empty now. No longer London stands
Superb, with the world's sword-hilt in her hands
And all the world's best thought within her brain.
We have lost a prize no other Power can gain,
And, crownless, court the doom of lesser lands.
Most empty now. No longer London stands
Superb, with the world's sword-hilt in her hands
And all the world's best thought within her brain.
We have lost a prize no other Power can gain,
And, crownless, court the doom of lesser lands.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |