The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
181
SONNET XXI
ENGLAND
England of Shakespeare, Shelley, Milton, Keats,
Burns, Byron, Wordsworth,—hath thine head grown grey,
And are the former glories passed away?
Is the heart tired that 'neath thine armour beats?
As year by year with speedy wing retreats,
Doth thy strength dwindle slowly and decay?
While yet the world basks in the golden day
Is it mist of night that round about thee fleets?—
Burns, Byron, Wordsworth,—hath thine head grown grey,
And are the former glories passed away?
Is the heart tired that 'neath thine armour beats?
As year by year with speedy wing retreats,
Doth thy strength dwindle slowly and decay?
While yet the world basks in the golden day
Is it mist of night that round about thee fleets?—
Rise thou, O England! Let thy great limbs sleep
No longer. Burn upon us with those eyes
That blenched not at Trafalgar's blood-red skies,—
Nor Waterloo,—nor Alma's thundering steep:—
Let not this crowd of mockers round thee leap,
While passionless thy giant sword-arm lies.
No longer. Burn upon us with those eyes
That blenched not at Trafalgar's blood-red skies,—
Nor Waterloo,—nor Alma's thundering steep:—
Let not this crowd of mockers round thee leap,
While passionless thy giant sword-arm lies.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |