Areytos or songs and ballads of the South

Now rouse thee up, old England,
And sharp anew thy spear,
And clothe thee in that valor
That hath made the nations fear;
A thousand years thy banner
Hath o'ershadowed sea and shore,
And thy soul hath never faltered,
Since the day of Azincourt!

For a lion spirit in thee,
With a stern and simple might,
Born of purpose frank, and wisdom,
Made thee stronger from each fight;
Thou had'st native virtues growing
In thy soil, that led thy race
To performance, through a Genius
That had ever foremost place.

But thy blood-red cross is paling,
And the sinews of thy strength,
Thy calm wisdom, Genius, failing,
Bring the threat'ning fate, at length;
Thou hast shown, by fatal error,
That thy legs are made of clay;
And thy brass of front and forehead
Will not keep thee from decay!

166

And but vain the simple valor
Of thy people in the fight,
Though they fling themselves on danger
With the wrestler's fierce delight—
If the Genius that once led them,
In the brave old days, be gone:
The Eye that went before them,
And the Wing that bore them on!

Where the stern old Norman virtues
Of thy Sidneys, Hampdens, now?
Where the Cromwells, Blakes, and Nelsons,
That wreathed laurels round thy brow?
Great master-souls, that ever
Shone out bright, with solar burst—
With a might to meet the trial,
When the danger threatened worst!

'Tis in these thou lack'st, old England!
Not the sinews but the soul—
The grand genius still for guidance,
The grand wisdom for control!
But the jackal plays the lion,
Where thy ancient statesmen stood,
And thy blood-ennobled virtues
Have been changed to things of wood!

Lo! thy monkeys in high station
Chatter welcome to thy fate;
Mock with impotence each effort
That would still maintain thy state;
Thy brave souls receive no summons
Such as saved thee still of yore:
Not thy nobles now—thy commons,
Can alone thy sway restore!

167

Face the truth in season, England!
Let thy wisdom seek, at length,
In the genius of thy people,
The true secret of thy strength;
Purge thine altars of the jackals
That sit gibbering thy disgrace;
And to competence plebeian
Let thy puppet peers give place!

What to thee the Gaul's alliance,
After years of Waterloo?
What the Russian's—world's—defiance,
To thyself, had'st thou been true?
Had'st thou kept the simple England,
Stern of virtue, with an aim
To ennoble manhood only,
To the grand results of Fame?

How had the noble Norman
Of the days of brave Queen Bess,
Loathed alliance with that foeman
Whom thou load'st with thy caress!
Thou hast pass'd, in briefest season,
With a wondrous brass of face,
From the speech of scorn and loathing,
To the kiss and the embrace!

'Tis a Judas kiss between ye,
Like the viper's, to be feared,
For ye loathe, even while ye drivel,
Slavering o'er each other's beard!
False and hollow each profession,
Each with purpose that betrays,
And the kiss is but the prelude
To the treachery that slays!

168

Think'st thou, as France beholds thee,
Struck down in single fight;
All thy feebleness made patent;
India's treasure full in sight—
That her keen and fierce ambition,
Rival she for sway and fame—
Yearning, with revenge impatient,
For a long account of shame—

Think'st thou, thy kiss will blind her
To the bait thy weakness shows?
Hollow truce and treaty bind her,
When her blows were fatal blows?
That thy glozing, honied phrases,
Will prove soothing, salving things,
For the race and man so lately
Grided by thy sneers and stings?

Believe it not!—The hour,
Sating hates of thousand years,
Nigh approaching, brings the power
That may well alarm thy fears:
Golden spoils, as well as passions,
Urge the speedy foe's advance,
And thy Indian empire opens
To the Russias and to France!

Not for thee the false alliance,
Frail as false, with Turk or Gaul!
One alone, of all the nations,
Still had succor'd thee from fall!
To thy genius kindred—springing
From thy loins—the sister race,
Here, in Apalachian forests,
Still had kept thee from disgrace!

169

In the Old World thine—and ours,
Stretching, conquering all the New,
'Gainst the world, in arms united,
We had proved each mission true:
Earnest pressing,still securing,
With each sunset, what the day
Yielded up of golden empire
To our mutual arms and sway!

For we loved thy glories, England,
Felt thy genius—felt it ours;
Shared thy fame—thy Norman spirit—
All its purposes and powers;
Loved the mother-land that bore us;
And, with instincts truer far
Than the teachings of the schoolman,
Followed still our natal star.

But thou did'st not suffer, England,
That our love should share thy fate;
And, as resolute on ruin,
For our fondness gave us hate;
Still pursued, with vexing quarrel,
Still assailed, with cruel blows,
Goading still a kindred people,
'Gainst their nature, to be foes!

Could'st thou rob, or wrong, or trample,
Could'st thou mock, or flout, or shame,
Thrust thy spear against our weakness,
Spoil our lands or taint our name—
Rampant, with imperious passion,
We beheld thee, all elate,
Fiercely hostile, foully working,
Glad to do the work of hate!

170

Yet, remembrance of thy glory,
What is noble in thee still,
Makes us weep to see thee failing,
Overborne in strength and will:
Though we know that, in alliance
With our foes, thy hostile aim
Means us malice; still would cripple;
Seeks to conquer, flout, and shame!

Yet thy blood is in our bosoms,
Kindred genius, aims, and powers,
And no policy can stifle
Pleas of nature such as ours:
Though we know that in thy triumph
Grows thy insolence and might,
Sworn to bring us future danger,
And one last and fearful fight!

Yet we would not see thee quailing
From thy ancient pride of place;
Would not see the red cross trailing,
Lily-dusted, in disgrace!
Rouse thee to thy Norman birth-right,
Braving Europe's odds and powers;
And if foreign arm must save thee,
Be it kindred—be it ours!

Written during the Crimean war.

University of Virginia Library

NOW ROUSE THEE UP, OLD ENGLAND!

A BALLAD FOR OUR BRITISH BRETHREN, FROM THE BACKWOODS.