 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
THE HUNDREDTH YEAR.
The grandeur of Old England,
What time in olden days
She had not sunk her dominance
In money-getting ways—
The glory of the land of France
Before, by pride and sin,
That royal-tiger heart of hers
The cancer entered in—
The honest heart of Germany,
Ere lust of land and power
Brought peril to the unity,
The fungus of an hour—
The dauntless pluck of Ireland
That held it undismayed
Till discord and the bigot's hate
The land to shame betrayed—
The stately chivalry of Spain,
Ere shameless women came
To fill with rottenness the realm,
And smirch its name and fame—
All these and more than these be thine,
Our country near and dear,
To add new honor to the land,
In this, thy hundredth year.
What time in olden days
She had not sunk her dominance
In money-getting ways—
The glory of the land of France
Before, by pride and sin,
That royal-tiger heart of hers
The cancer entered in—
The honest heart of Germany,
Ere lust of land and power
Brought peril to the unity,
The fungus of an hour—
The dauntless pluck of Ireland
That held it undismayed
Till discord and the bigot's hate
The land to shame betrayed—
The stately chivalry of Spain,
Ere shameless women came
To fill with rottenness the realm,
And smirch its name and fame—
676
Our country near and dear,
To add new honor to the land,
In this, thy hundredth year.
Alas! the purpose sordid
That pulls Old England down,
That sinks the peasant lower yet,
And tarnishes the crown—
The pride and sins that France degrade;
(Some sins too foul to speak)
That taint the body-politic,
And make the spirit weak—
The lust of sway and greed of soil
That lets no neighbor rest,
And fills the heart of Germany
With eagerness unblest—
The hate of warring sectaries,
The avarice mean and low,
That sold the country's life for gold,
And Ireland brought to woe—
The lust, the falsehood and intrigue
By woman vile and vain,
The wiles of politicians base
That wrought the fall of Spain—
All these, and even more than these,
Find ready lodgment here,
And with their poison fill thy veins
In this, thy hundredth year.
That pulls Old England down,
That sinks the peasant lower yet,
And tarnishes the crown—
The pride and sins that France degrade;
(Some sins too foul to speak)
That taint the body-politic,
And make the spirit weak—
The lust of sway and greed of soil
That lets no neighbor rest,
And fills the heart of Germany
With eagerness unblest—
The hate of warring sectaries,
The avarice mean and low,
That sold the country's life for gold,
And Ireland brought to woe—
The lust, the falsehood and intrigue
By woman vile and vain,
The wiles of politicians base
That wrought the fall of Spain—
All these, and even more than these,
Find ready lodgment here,
And with their poison fill thy veins
In this, thy hundredth year.
Arouse from sleep our country,
And purge thyself to-day;
From the seething caldron of thy life
Cast scum and froth away;
The robbers who assume to rule,
And make thy chiefest woes,
Whose actions taint thy history,
With vengeful hand depose;
Ere they may cover thee and thine
With universal scorn,
Make them to rue with grief and shame
The hour when they were born;
Drive hence the money-buccaneers,
Combined with purpose fell,
Whose god is greed, whose heaven is gain,
Whose faith is born of hell;
The sense of duty, keen and strong,
That marked our sires, restore;
Truth, firmness, honesty, and right
Bring to the front once more:
Do this, and so disperse the cloud
Stooping so darkly near,
Or feel thy sure decay begun
In this, thy hundredth year.
And purge thyself to-day;
From the seething caldron of thy life
Cast scum and froth away;
The robbers who assume to rule,
And make thy chiefest woes,
677
With vengeful hand depose;
Ere they may cover thee and thine
With universal scorn,
Make them to rue with grief and shame
The hour when they were born;
Drive hence the money-buccaneers,
Combined with purpose fell,
Whose god is greed, whose heaven is gain,
Whose faith is born of hell;
The sense of duty, keen and strong,
That marked our sires, restore;
Truth, firmness, honesty, and right
Bring to the front once more:
Do this, and so disperse the cloud
Stooping so darkly near,
Or feel thy sure decay begun
In this, thy hundredth year.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |