 | England |  |
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GREAT CHARTER OF RUNNYMEDE. JUNE 15. A.D. 1215.
“White brands have arm'd their thin and hairless scalps
Against thy majesty. Boys, with women's voices,
Strive to speak big, and clap their female joints
In stiff unwieldly arms against thy crown.”
—Shakspeare.
Against thy majesty. Boys, with women's voices,
Strive to speak big, and clap their female joints
In stiff unwieldly arms against thy crown.”
—Shakspeare.
“Our land, the first garden of liberty's tree;
It has been and shall be the land of the free.”
Campbell's Song of the Greeks.
It has been and shall be the land of the free.”
Campbell's Song of the Greeks.
When o'er the solemn page of history
I turn mine eyes, still, England, have I found
That they who most resisted tyranny—
Held kings and people in their stated bound—
Upheld the laws, and spread all good around:
That they who most regarded sick and poor—
That they who first, at war's alarum sound,
Fought for our fields and altars, in worst hour,
England, were lords of thine—thy citadel and tower!
I turn mine eyes, still, England, have I found
That they who most resisted tyranny—
Held kings and people in their stated bound—
Upheld the laws, and spread all good around:
That they who most regarded sick and poor—
That they who first, at war's alarum sound,
Fought for our fields and altars, in worst hour,
England, were lords of thine—thy citadel and tower!
'Twas they who spurn'd full oft the invader's foot—
Whose noblest children's blood upheld the fight;
'Twas they who took corruption by the root,
In earliest times, and battled for the right,
In wildest tribulation; their hearts light—
Their arms still strong—their valour ever fit:
Dane, Roman, Norman, felt their giant might;
Cressy and Agincourt have heard their feet,
Whose echoes shook but late Napoleon's lofty seat.
Whose noblest children's blood upheld the fight;
'Twas they who took corruption by the root,
In earliest times, and battled for the right,
In wildest tribulation; their hearts light—
Their arms still strong—their valour ever fit:
Dane, Roman, Norman, felt their giant might;
Cressy and Agincourt have heard their feet,
Whose echoes shook but late Napoleon's lofty seat.
198
Greater than all our greatest kings are they—
High-soul'd, and chivalrous—courageous, wise,
They are the hand that bears the monarch's sway—
The front on which the monarch's crown relies.
From them it was our thunder did arise;
'Twas they made England's fame to fill the earth;
Through them the law on each so equal lies—
Through them the spirit of the land burst forth,
When England still was young; 'twas they that gave it birth.
High-soul'd, and chivalrous—courageous, wise,
They are the hand that bears the monarch's sway—
The front on which the monarch's crown relies.
From them it was our thunder did arise;
'Twas they made England's fame to fill the earth;
Through them the law on each so equal lies—
Through them the spirit of the land burst forth,
When England still was young; 'twas they that gave it birth.
Whence, then, the howling of this ruffian rout,
Who seek to drag these lofty natures down?
Why rends the sky this wild and murderous shout
Of scoundrel knaves, who, hating king and crown,
High state, heroic deeds, and old renown;
Fields, castles, grandeur—seek to drag them low?
If, from that niche, the grand old shape would frown,
That sculptur'd knight would nod his stately brow,
The slaves would sink to earth, who nought but slavery know.
Who seek to drag these lofty natures down?
Why rends the sky this wild and murderous shout
Of scoundrel knaves, who, hating king and crown,
High state, heroic deeds, and old renown;
Fields, castles, grandeur—seek to drag them low?
If, from that niche, the grand old shape would frown,
That sculptur'd knight would nod his stately brow,
The slaves would sink to earth, who nought but slavery know.
Are they not ever treacherous and base—
Despots at heart, bad, envious, fill'd with hate;
Is not the serpents' venom in their race—
The toad's malignity?—These forms of state—
These coronets, and halls, and pomps, that wait
On rank; these castles, forests, garden-flowers,
They, envious, loathe; dastards, whose souls ne'er beat;
Nor will, though they should walk 'mid Rome's old towers,
Or Athen's sculptur'd forms, and academic bowers!
Despots at heart, bad, envious, fill'd with hate;
Is not the serpents' venom in their race—
The toad's malignity?—These forms of state—
These coronets, and halls, and pomps, that wait
On rank; these castles, forests, garden-flowers,
They, envious, loathe; dastards, whose souls ne'er beat;
Nor will, though they should walk 'mid Rome's old towers,
Or Athen's sculptur'd forms, and academic bowers!
199
Ye Lords of England, when, amid the gloom
Of time I look, and view what ye have done—
When, as the heavens, at evening, illume
Your halls and castles, as, of memories gone,
My heart beats high—my spirit is undone—
Awe and deep reverence do chain my soul:
Such thoughts were yours—such lofty deeds ye won,
A thousand dreams amid my musings roll,
Of glory, valour, strength, and acts majestical.
Of time I look, and view what ye have done—
When, as the heavens, at evening, illume
Your halls and castles, as, of memories gone,
My heart beats high—my spirit is undone—
Awe and deep reverence do chain my soul:
Such thoughts were yours—such lofty deeds ye won,
A thousand dreams amid my musings roll,
Of glory, valour, strength, and acts majestical.
The blaze of chivalry surrounds my brain—
The tournament, and knights in glittering mail;
I see the myriad hosts that, on the plain
Of Palestine, sent out their darts like hail.
Each glorious battle sounds upon the gale:
I hear the clarion, and the helmets jar—
Each spot where'er my wandering footsteps fall,
Tells of your prowess—speaks of love or war;
And to my heart of hearts, your glory shines afar.
The tournament, and knights in glittering mail;
I see the myriad hosts that, on the plain
Of Palestine, sent out their darts like hail.
Each glorious battle sounds upon the gale:
I hear the clarion, and the helmets jar—
Each spot where'er my wandering footsteps fall,
Tells of your prowess—speaks of love or war;
And to my heart of hearts, your glory shines afar.
A summer noon—the earth is calm and still—
Among the sacred fields of Runnymede
The lazy cattle browse: in each bright rill
The silver trout sail slow: the happy breed
Of birds seem all asleep: scarce the light reed
Doth shake; and the blue heavens are deep and clear:
A holy time, when nuns may count the bead
In amorous faith, and drop the adoring tear—
When poets dreams flow fast by wood and glassy mere.
Among the sacred fields of Runnymede
The lazy cattle browse: in each bright rill
The silver trout sail slow: the happy breed
Of birds seem all asleep: scarce the light reed
Doth shake; and the blue heavens are deep and clear:
A holy time, when nuns may count the bead
In amorous faith, and drop the adoring tear—
When poets dreams flow fast by wood and glassy mere.
200
Under the shadow of the sovereign oak
The crowned monarch sits upon his throne;
And they whom he had bow'd to servile yoke
Stand round, a mighty band, nor fear his frown:
They bear the crests that drove the Pagan down
In Palestine—the sword and helm of war:
Yet will they touch no gem upon his crown:
To win their rights, it is, they come from far;
In rearing which, they won full many an honor'd scar.
The crowned monarch sits upon his throne;
And they whom he had bow'd to servile yoke
Stand round, a mighty band, nor fear his frown:
They bear the crests that drove the Pagan down
In Palestine—the sword and helm of war:
Yet will they touch no gem upon his crown:
To win their rights, it is, they come from far;
In rearing which, they won full many an honor'd scar.
The hot sun glows, in noontide splendour bright,
On banner, helmet, spear, and coat of mail,
As if to sanctify their sacred right,
From harms of earth or hell that may assail.
There float the various banners on the gale,
Of Mowbray, Salisbury, Langton, Audibie;
The sunbeams on their swords and helmets fall:
Their swords unsheath'd—their bearing proud and high—
Such champions seldom crowd thy shrine, O, Liberty!
On banner, helmet, spear, and coat of mail,
As if to sanctify their sacred right,
From harms of earth or hell that may assail.
There float the various banners on the gale,
Of Mowbray, Salisbury, Langton, Audibie;
The sunbeams on their swords and helmets fall:
Their swords unsheath'd—their bearing proud and high—
Such champions seldom crowd thy shrine, O, Liberty!
Slowly, the Primate walks before them all,
And reverently the tyrant king doth greet;
And now the parchment sheet he doth unrol,
And meekly lays it at his monarch's feet.
Not the black cloud that bears the lightning-sheet
More horrid shows than does the monarch's brow;
And that fell hand that shed the heart's blood sweet
Of the young Arthur, with calm steady blow,
Even like a madman drunk, doth shake, and tremble now!
And reverently the tyrant king doth greet;
And now the parchment sheet he doth unrol,
And meekly lays it at his monarch's feet.
Not the black cloud that bears the lightning-sheet
More horrid shows than does the monarch's brow;
And that fell hand that shed the heart's blood sweet
Of the young Arthur, with calm steady blow,
Even like a madman drunk, doth shake, and tremble now!
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“'Tis ours!—'tis ours!”—they shout with general cry,
“'Tis ours!—'tis ours!—and truth and freedom won
“From out the tiger-jaws of tyranny!
“The glorious consummation now is done!”
Nor could the despot this proud action shun,
Though hir'd assassins prowl'd o'er all the land,
And strove to nullify the edict gone.
They could not. Slaves can ne'er unlock the hand
Of truth and justice bound, nor shake their proud command.
“'Tis ours!—'tis ours!—and truth and freedom won
“From out the tiger-jaws of tyranny!
“The glorious consummation now is done!”
Nor could the despot this proud action shun,
Though hir'd assassins prowl'd o'er all the land,
And strove to nullify the edict gone.
They could not. Slaves can ne'er unlock the hand
Of truth and justice bound, nor shake their proud command.
Long may they stand in pomp majestical,
Our English Lords! Long may they bravely stand!
May not a stone of castle, tower, or hall,
Be touch'd, of those who elevate the land—
Who hold the ruder natures in command—
Who bear the fallen fortunes of the state,
In evil times, with more than giant hand!
Their blood, their lands, their treasures ever wait—
Their arms are ready still, to save the land, tho' late.
Our English Lords! Long may they bravely stand!
May not a stone of castle, tower, or hall,
Be touch'd, of those who elevate the land—
Who hold the ruder natures in command—
Who bear the fallen fortunes of the state,
In evil times, with more than giant hand!
Their blood, their lands, their treasures ever wait—
Their arms are ready still, to save the land, tho' late.
Yea, nought shall tear our liberty away.
Strong as the cliffs, eternal as the sea;
Constant, as is the light that beckons day,
England shall live unconquerable and free.
In vain shall the rude hand of tyranny
Strive on our shores—in vain oppression strive:
Immortal names still glow on freedom's sky:
Heroes and patriots in our history live—
Their arms, their deeds are ours—their fame is still alive!
Strong as the cliffs, eternal as the sea;
Constant, as is the light that beckons day,
England shall live unconquerable and free.
In vain shall the rude hand of tyranny
Strive on our shores—in vain oppression strive:
Immortal names still glow on freedom's sky:
Heroes and patriots in our history live—
Their arms, their deeds are ours—their fame is still alive!
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