English Roses by F. Harald Williams [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] |
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| I. |
| II. |
WHERE IS OLD ENGLAND? |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | English Roses |  |
WHERE IS OLD ENGLAND?
Where is the old ascendence,
Which as a giant drew
In dauntless independence
The bow of bitter yew?
Where are the iron feet that stood
For England on her walls of wood
In one unbroken brotherhood,
And fought and overthrew?
Back to the breast that suckled
Our never-beaten sires,
Who with base spirit truckled
Not to the fiercest fires.
Which as a giant drew
In dauntless independence
The bow of bitter yew?
159
For England on her walls of wood
In one unbroken brotherhood,
And fought and overthrew?
Back to the breast that suckled
Our never-beaten sires,
Who with base spirit truckled
Not to the fiercest fires.
Where is the old endurance,
Which carried safe to port
The ship with stout assurance,
And counted striving sport?
Where are the iron arms of yore,
That in their English quivers bore
The lives of twenty men and more,
And bled at Agincourt?
Back to the mighty mother,
That bred and fostered all;
And fly the fumes, that smother
The empire to its fall.
Which carried safe to port
The ship with stout assurance,
And counted striving sport?
Where are the iron arms of yore,
That in their English quivers bore
The lives of twenty men and more,
And bled at Agincourt?
Back to the mighty mother,
That bred and fostered all;
And fly the fumes, that smother
The empire to its fall.
Where is the old defiance,
That crumbled thrones as clods;
And, with a great reliance,
Faced overwhelming odds?
Where are the iron acts, that broke
Their chains with charters and awoke
To conscious power and by it spoke,
And knew the battle God's?
Back to the breezy fountains,
And not the city den;
Back to the moors and mountains,
That made our English men.
That crumbled thrones as clods;
And, with a great reliance,
Faced overwhelming odds?
Where are the iron acts, that broke
Their chains with charters and awoke
To conscious power and by it spoke,
And knew the battle God's?
Back to the breezy fountains,
And not the city den;
Back to the moors and mountains,
That made our English men.
Where is the old aggression,
Which wantoned in the strife,
The glorious indiscretion
Uncareful of the life?
Where are the iron hearts, that fed
On goodly deeds as daily bread,
Or chose the hardest field for bed
And kissed the altar knife?
Back to the streams and meadows,
The furrow's fertile track;
And freedom, through the shadows,
Shall bring our England back.
Which wantoned in the strife,
The glorious indiscretion
Uncareful of the life?
Where are the iron hearts, that fed
On goodly deeds as daily bread,
160
And kissed the altar knife?
Back to the streams and meadows,
The furrow's fertile track;
And freedom, through the shadows,
Shall bring our England back.
| English Roses | |