The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
| 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 |  |
31
IV
TO THE WOMEN OF ENGLAND
Queens of fair England, England of the rose,
The sunlit vale, the ocean-girdled shore,
The flower-sweet fields where no gaunt cannons roar,—
Queens of a land where love's heart may repose
Heedless of aught save the deep peace it knows,
The joys it brings, the heaven it can restore,—
Think of grim agony regnant, nor ignore
Measureless grief, most unexampled woes.
The sunlit vale, the ocean-girdled shore,
The flower-sweet fields where no gaunt cannons roar,—
Queens of a land where love's heart may repose
Heedless of aught save the deep peace it knows,
The joys it brings, the heaven it can restore,—
Think of grim agony regnant, nor ignore
Measureless grief, most unexampled woes.
Vast is your power and vast your influence high.
Not yet your hearts have spoken as of old
When pity and love and your own souls were one.
Your prayers can summon, white-winged from the sky,
Spirits of force undreamed-of. Speak, be bold.
Banish this darkness, and relight the sun.
Not yet your hearts have spoken as of old
When pity and love and your own souls were one.
Your prayers can summon, white-winged from the sky,
Spirits of force undreamed-of. Speak, be bold.
Banish this darkness, and relight the sun.
March, 1904.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |