University of Virginia Library

THE ENGLISHMAN.

He washed his lips with honest beer,
As every Briton should,
Who loves his country and the cheer
Of health and hardihood.
He stood broad-breasted as a tower,
And imaged in his pipe
At every breath the pride of power—
His sentiments were ripe.
Frank was his face, with labour seamed
In lines, and sorrow some;
And in his open glances, gleamed
New empires yet to come.
Though rude and racy of the soil
And shaped by winter sky,
He showed beneath the tan of toil
A tender chivalry.
A trifle surly, if you will,
When babies come too fast;
A word, a buffet—he could strike,
And leave a manly mark—
Came ready to him, each alike
But never in the dark.
He honoured each high instinct much,
He drank of beauty springs;
And finding him, you seemed to touch
The fountain of all things.
And none could call that being poor,
Which mingled in its life
The fragrance of the mount and moor,
And breezy airs at strife.
The flowers and morning freshnesses
Were married with the flood
In him, and green wood impulses
Ran riot in his blood.
The rustling of the heather bell
And happy birds at play,
O'erflowed his limbs and with their spell
Made music of his day.
His sinewy arms had gathered strength
From many an iron storm,
Which hewed by tardy strokes at length
His gnarled and rugged form.
But thus he grew from Nature's mould
And by her broadening plan,
A thing of plastic clay and gold,
A true imperial man.