University of Virginia Library

TO ENGLAND.

[I. Lear and Cordelia! 'twas an ancient tale]

Lear and Cordelia! 'twas an ancient tale
Before thy Shakspeare gave it deathless fame:
The times have changed, the moral is the same.
So like an outcast, dowerless, and pale,
Thy daughter went; and in a foreign gale
Spread her young banner, till its sway became
A wonder to the nations. Days of shame
Are close upon thee: prophets raise their wail.
When the rude Cossack with an outstretched hand
Points his long spear across the narrow sea,—
“Lo! there is England!” when thy destiny
Storms on thy straw-crowned head, and thou dost stand
Weak, helpless, mad, a by-word in the land,—
God grant thy daughter a Cordelia be!

[II. Stand, thou great bulwark of man's liberty]

Stand, thou great bulwark of man's liberty!
Thou rock of shelter, rising from the wave,
Sole refuge to the overwearied brave
Who planned, arose, and battled to be free,
Fell undeterred, then sadly turned to thee;—
Saved the free spirit from their country's grave,
To rise again, and animate the slave,
When God shall ripen all things. Britons, ye
Who guard the sacred outpost, not in vain
Hold your proud peril! Freemen undefiled,
Keep watch and ward! Let battlements be piled
Around your cliffs; fleets marshalled, till the main
Sink under them; and if your courage wane,
Through force or fraud, look westward to your child!

[III. At length the tempest from the North has burst]

At length the tempest from the North has burst,
The threatened storm, by sages seen of old;
And into jarring anarchy is rolled
Harmonious peace, so long and fondly nursed
By watchful nations. Tyranny accursed
Has broken bounds—the wolf makes towards the fold.
Up! ere your priceless liberties be sold
Into degrading slavery! The worst
That can befall you is the brunt of war,
Dealt on a shield that oft has felt the weight
Of foeman's blows.—Up! ere it be too late!
For God has squandered all his precious store
Of right and mercy, if the time 's so sore
That slaves can bring you to their own base state.

[IV. Far from the Baltic to the Euxine's strand]

Far from the Baltic to the Euxine's strand,
Peals the vast clamor of commencing war;
And we, O England, on another shore,
Like brothers bound, with wistful faces stand—
With shouts of cheer, with wavings of the hand—
With eager throbbings of the heart, to pour
Our warlike files amid the battle's war,
And nerve the terrors of thy lifted brand.
Old wrongs have vanished in thy evil hours;
The blood that fell between us, in the fight,
Has dried away before a heavenly light.
We'll strew thy paths of victory with flowers,
Weep o'er thy woes, and cry, with all our powers,
Thy cause is God's, because thy cause is right!

[V. O, men of England, with an anxious heart]

O, men of England, with an anxious heart
We see you arming for the coming fight.
Pale lips that quiver, in our pride's despite,
Bid you God speed! Be this our tenderer part.
Yours is the frown of war, the martial start
That wakes to glory and resistless might,
When your great standard rises on the sight,
Blazoned with memories; an awful chart
Of grand adventures done in olden days,—
At once a pride and terror. Ill bestead
The soul that shrinks from duty through its dread;
Or seeks another outlet than the ways
Marked down for you, amid the whole world's praise—
The noble ways on which your fathers led.

[VI. Once more old England's banner on the gale]

Once more old England's banner on the gale
Flames like the comet in our western sky;
Beneath its fiery glare are lifted high
Long lines of steel, and clouds of snowy sail.
O, ye who bear it through the eastern vale,
Think how it shone in Cœur de Lion's eye!
Ye who behold it on the waters fly,
Think how it answered Nelson's dauntless hail!
From the Crusader to the Sailor turn,
And mark the lines of glory that appear
Stretched through your chronicles, starred far and near
With names heroical—dread names that burn,
Like deathless lamps, above each funeral urn,
To light you onward in their grand career.

[VII. Faint not nor tremble, birthplace of my sires]

Faint not nor tremble, birthplace of my sires,
Because the dreadful arm of war is bare,
And thy sons bleed with many wounds that glare
In pleading misery on thee. Household fires
Must quench; there 's trouble in the land. Desires
For peace, old longings, that with loathful stare
Take up the sword with such a backward air,
Must vanish now. I know thy soul aspires
Towards all that 's manly, liberal, and great:
Therefore, when you behold your children come,
Gored by the curséd Cossack, wounded home,
Shed not a useless tear; but edge thy hate
With double fury! Sound the mustering drum,
And fill your ranks up to their wonted state!