University of Virginia Library


104

SONNET XXIX. CHRIST AND ENGLAND.

Nay! but our own dear land thou shalt not hold,
Lord Christ. Thou hast thy white-walled Eastern town,
And thine own endless worshipful renown,
And heaven's own sunlit heights, and towers of gold.—
Not thine the English wild furze-yellowed wold;
Not thine the breeze that sweeps green hill and down;
Not thine the roses that our gardens crown;
Not thine our sea-winds ululant and bold.
Rest where thou art, lest thou shouldst have a fall.—
The storm is in our spirits, and the sea;
The skies' grim armies hearken at our call,
And the grey mountain-vapours round us flee,
And murmurous ocean girds us like a wall.
We are content. We have no need of thee.