 | Ranolf and Amohia |  |
III.
Aye, indeed!These men were the right genuine stuff
To rule a World—a hero-breed—
High minds, such as by instinct feed
On mighty tasks,—Souls large enough
For Empire!—Empire, never won
As never kept, beneath the Sun,
By slow hack-hearts that never knew
A spur beyond material greed!
The mere ‘utilitarian’ crew
Whose huckstering God is only Gold;
That ‘cheaply bought’ be ‘dearly sold,’
Their sordid creed and single heed;
Whose grovelling zeal,—their Altar still
The counter—and their Ark the till—
At that base shrine would sacrifice
Power, honour, Empire!—all the ties
That keep us one; whatever wakes
The patriot glow, the pride of race;—
All that, with love of Order, makes
179
And any people great! whate'er
Of quick and kindling sympathy
With England's children everywhere—
Our common claim to one great name,
One heritage of storied Fame,
It was our boast, our strength to share;—
That conscious thrill of kindred blood
Which false refinement feigns to raise,
Evaporating all its good,
Into a fine and feeble phase
Of vague and vain Philanthropy;
But kept alive,—yet none the less
Alert to let no furtherance slip
Of all-embracing comradeship
And generous great wide-heartedness,—
The more it can inspire, expand,
So much more glorious, powerful, grand,
Becomes each human brotherhood;
And ever, just as each has grown
To greatness or remained unknown,
Did each this genial warmth possess
Defective or in bright excess;
The savage, for his tribe alone,
The Roman for a World—his own!
| Ranolf and Amohia | |