 | English Roses |  |
INDIA'S HEROES.
Give me a pen of fire,
And thought clothed in the thunder
Of catholic desire
That breaks men's hearts asunder;
And then I shall not duly sing
The deeds that through all ages ring
Of heroes who made empire spring,
And sowed their lives thereunder.
For who can justly tell
Of souls, the Grand Refiner
Purged in a flaming hell,
To issue thence diviner?
And thought clothed in the thunder
Of catholic desire
That breaks men's hearts asunder;
And then I shall not duly sing
The deeds that through all ages ring
Of heroes who made empire spring,
And sowed their lives thereunder.
For who can justly tell
Of souls, the Grand Refiner
Purged in a flaming hell,
To issue thence diviner?
Give me a fancy tipt
With sunrise and its glory,
And in the earthquake dipt
Of battle grim and gory;
And then I should but feebly write
Of saintlinesses fair and white,
And martyrs' patience infinite
Crowned like some promontory.
For fancy none nor pen
Can paint, in hues that bound us,
How gods once mixed with men—
To show the Heaven around us.
With sunrise and its glory,
And in the earthquake dipt
Of battle grim and gory;
And then I should but feebly write
Of saintlinesses fair and white,
And martyrs' patience infinite
Crowned like some promontory.
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Can paint, in hues that bound us,
How gods once mixed with men—
To show the Heaven around us.
| English Roses | |