 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
525
NO ONE AT THE HELM. 1885.
Hark! the winds are blowing shoreward,
And the rocks are on the lee;
But for England fair and forward,
Not a pilot can we see.
And the ship of State is drifting,
Where she has no ocean room;
And the stormy waves are lifting
Her all desperate to doom.
Ah, the planks they shake and shudder,
As they feel the coming fate;
If some captain takes the rudder,
Will he take it now too late?
For the bravest men are stricken,
From the precious help delayed;
And the noblest bosoms sicken,
For they know they are betrayed.
Every promise was perverted,
When our grandest heroes fell;
And when Gordon died deserted,
It was England's funeral knell.
Shall a nation lie and languish,
With a ruler in the realm?
But for England in her anguish
There is no one at the helm.
And the rocks are on the lee;
But for England fair and forward,
Not a pilot can we see.
And the ship of State is drifting,
Where she has no ocean room;
And the stormy waves are lifting
Her all desperate to doom.
Ah, the planks they shake and shudder,
As they feel the coming fate;
If some captain takes the rudder,
Will he take it now too late?
For the bravest men are stricken,
From the precious help delayed;
And the noblest bosoms sicken,
For they know they are betrayed.
Every promise was perverted,
When our grandest heroes fell;
And when Gordon died deserted,
It was England's funeral knell.
Shall a nation lie and languish,
With a ruler in the realm?
But for England in her anguish
There is no one at the helm.
Lo, the iron bolts are starting,
In the tempest's angry flail;
And the gods are all departing,
With a weeping and a wail.
For the ship of State is drifting,
With her broadside to the blast;
And the sides are slowly rifting,
And is cracked the straining mast.
Not a voice to give the orders,
Not a trump a certain sound;
Though we tremble on the borders,
Of destruction's hopeless bound.
When we ask for swift decision,
A commander for the ship,
There is nothing but division,
Or a lie upon the lip.
Though the flag is torn and tattered,
And is not without a stain,
Though our forces are so scattered,
We a leader ask in vain.
Shall a nation lie and languish,
With a ruler in the realm?
But for England in her anguish,
There is no one at the helm.
In the tempest's angry flail;
And the gods are all departing,
With a weeping and a wail.
For the ship of State is drifting,
With her broadside to the blast;
And the sides are slowly rifting,
And is cracked the straining mast.
Not a voice to give the orders,
Not a trump a certain sound;
Though we tremble on the borders,
Of destruction's hopeless bound.
When we ask for swift decision,
A commander for the ship,
There is nothing but division,
Or a lie upon the lip.
Though the flag is torn and tattered,
And is not without a stain,
Though our forces are so scattered,
We a leader ask in vain.
Shall a nation lie and languish,
With a ruler in the realm?
But for England in her anguish,
There is no one at the helm.
526
Yes, the shoals are creeping nearer,
And they show their awful shape,
With the breakers tossing nearer,
As if now were no escape.
For the ship of State is drifting,
To the unrelenting shore;
To which many pass through sifting,
But alas, return no more.
We can trust the words of strangers,
We can glorious battles win,
We can conquer giant dangers,
But not treachery within.
Oh, our Gordon, England's jewel,
And the bulwark of the State!
Oh, the mercy that was cruel,
And the help that came too late!
Must the country's pride be taken,
And his butcher darkly stand,
He himself alone unshaken,
And upon a ruined land?
Shall a nation lie and languish,
With a ruler in the realm?
But for England in her anguish,
There is no one at the helm.
And they show their awful shape,
With the breakers tossing nearer,
As if now were no escape.
For the ship of State is drifting,
To the unrelenting shore;
To which many pass through sifting,
But alas, return no more.
We can trust the words of strangers,
We can glorious battles win,
We can conquer giant dangers,
But not treachery within.
Oh, our Gordon, England's jewel,
And the bulwark of the State!
Oh, the mercy that was cruel,
And the help that came too late!
Must the country's pride be taken,
And his butcher darkly stand,
He himself alone unshaken,
And upon a ruined land?
Shall a nation lie and languish,
With a ruler in the realm?
But for England in her anguish,
There is no one at the helm.
Ah, the last sad hour is tolling,
Like a muffled mourning bell;
And the billows fierce are rolling,
While we labour in the swell.
For the ship of State is drifting,
With no happy sign to cheer;
Not a heart with aim unshifting,
Not an honest hand to cheer.
Must we die without a struggle?
Must we fall without a blow?
Must we let the traitor juggle,
Who has laid our honour low?
We will serve a faithful master,
Who will nobly guide and feel;
We can yet defy disaster,
With a steersman at the wheel.
But the wind is growing higher,
And the clouds are gathering still;
And the curse is drawing nigher,
The inexorable ill.
Shall a nation lie and languish,
With a ruler in her realm?
But for England in her anguish,
There is no one at the helm.
Like a muffled mourning bell;
And the billows fierce are rolling,
While we labour in the swell.
For the ship of State is drifting,
With no happy sign to cheer;
Not a heart with aim unshifting,
Not an honest hand to cheer.
Must we die without a struggle?
Must we fall without a blow?
Must we let the traitor juggle,
Who has laid our honour low?
We will serve a faithful master,
Who will nobly guide and feel;
We can yet defy disaster,
With a steersman at the wheel.
But the wind is growing higher,
And the clouds are gathering still;
And the curse is drawing nigher,
The inexorable ill.
Shall a nation lie and languish,
With a ruler in her realm?
But for England in her anguish,
There is no one at the helm.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |