University of Virginia Library

O! days of shame! O! days of woe!
Of helpless shame, of helpless woe!
The times reveal thy nakedness,
Thy utter weakness, deep distress.
There is no help in all the land;
Thy eyes may wander to and fro,
Yet find no succor. Every hand
Has weighed the guinea, poised the gold,
Chaffered and bargained, bought and sold,
Until the sinews, framed for war,
Can grasp the sword and shield no more.
Their trembling palms are stretched to thee;
Purses are offered, heaping hoards—
The plunder of the land and sea—
Are proffered, all too eagerly,
But thou must look abroad for swords.

These are the gods ye trusted in;
For these ye crept from sin to sin;
Made honor cheap, made station dear,
Made wealth a lord, made truth a drudge,
Made venal interest the sole judge
Of principles as high and clear
As heaven itself.
With glittering pelf
Ye gilt the coward, knave, and fool,
Meted the earth out with a rule
Of gold, weighed nations in your golden scales!
And, surely, this law never fails—
What else may change, this law stands fast—
“The golden standard is the thing
To which the beggar, lord, and king,
And all that 's earthly, come at last.”
O, mighty gods! O, noble trust!
They are your all; ye cannot look
Back to the faith ye once forsook;
The past is dry and worthless dust;
Gold, gold is all! Ye cannot fill
Your brains with legends vague and thin;
Hang up your arms amidst their rust:
These are the gods ye trusted in;
They can deliver you, and will!

O! bitter waking! mocking dream!
The gilt has worn away,
The idols are but clay,
Their pride is overthrown, their glories only seem!
The land is full of fear,
Men pale at what they hear,
The widowed matrons sob, the orphaned children cry;
There 's desolation everywhere, there 's not one comfort nigh!
The nations stand agaze,
In dubious amaze,
To see Britannia's threatening form,
That loomed gigantic mid the splendid haze
Through which they saw her tower—
As, at the morning hour,
The spectral figure strides across her misty hills—
Shrink to a pigmy when the storm
Rends the delusive cloud,
And shows her weak and bowed,
A feeble crone that hides for shelter from her ills.

O, mother of our race, can nothing break
This leaden apathy of thine?
Think of the long and glorious line
Of heroes who beside the Stygian lake
Hearken for news from thee!
Apart their forms I see,
With muffled heads and tristful faces bowed—
Heads once so high, faces so calm and proud!
The Norman fire burns low
In William's haughty heart;
The mirth has passed away
From Cœur de Lion's ample brow;
In sorrowful dismay
The warlike Edwards and the Henrys stand,
Stung with a shameful smart;
While the eighth Harry, with his close-clutched hand,
Smothers the passion in his ireful soul;
Or his fierce eye-balls roll
Where his bold daughter beats her sharp foot-tip,
And gnaws her quivering lip.
While the stern, crownless king, who strode between
Father and son, and put them both aside,
With straight terrific glare,
As a lion from his lair,
Asks with his eyes such questions keen
As his crowned brothers neither dare
To answer nor abide.
How shall he make reply,
The shadow that draws nigh,
The latest comer, the great Duke,
Whose patient valor, blow by blow,
Wrought at a Titan's overthrow,
And gave his pride its first and last rebuke?
What shall he say when this heroic band
Catch at his welcome hand,
And trembling, half in fear,
Half in their eagerness to hear,
“What of our England?” ask?
Ah! shameful, shameful task!
To tell to souls like these
Of her languid golden ease,
Of her tame, dull history!
How she frowns upon the free,
How she ogles tyranny;
How with despots she coquets;
How she swears, and then forgets;
How she plays at fast and loose
With right and gross abuse;
How she fawns upon her foes,
And lowers upon her friends;
Growing weaker, day by day,
In her mean and crooked way,
Piling woes upon her woes,
As tottering she goes
Down the path where falsehood ends.
Methinks I see the awful brow
Of Cromwell wrinkle at the tale forlorn,
See the hot flushes on his forehead glow,
Hear his low growl of scorn!
Is this the realm these souls bequeathed to you,
That, with all its many faults,
Its hasty strides and tardy halts,
To the truth was ever true?
O! shame not the noble dead,
Who through storm and slaughter led,
With toil, and care, and pain,
Winning glory, grain by grain,
Till no land that history knows
With such unutterable splendor glows!

Awake! the spirit yet survives
To baffle fate and conquer foes!
If not among your lords it lives,
Your chartered governors, if they
Have not the power to lead, away,
Away with lords! and give the men
Whom nature gives the right to sway,
Who love their country with a fire
That, for her darkness, burns the higher—
Give these the rule! Abase your ken,
Look downward to your heart for those
In whom your ancient life-blood flows,
And let their souls aspire!
Somewhere, I trust in God, remain,
Untainted by the golden stain,
Men worthy of an English sire;
Bold men, who dare, in wrong's despite,
Speak truth, and strike a blow for right;
Men who have ever put their trust
Neither in rank nor gold,
Nor aught that 's bought and sold,
But in high aims, and God the just!
Seek through the land,
On every hand,
Rear up the strong, the feeble lop;
Laugh at the star and civic fur,
The blazoned shield and gartered knee—
The gewgaws of man's infancy;
And if the search be vain,
Give it not o'er too suddenly—
I swear the soul still lives in thee!—
Down to thy lowest atoms drop,
Down to the very dregs, and stir
The People to the top!