 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
171
ENGLAND'S CHILD.
I blame thee not, as other some have blamed,—The highborn heir had grown to man's estate;
I mock thee not as some who should be shamed,
Nor ferret out thy faults with envious hate;
Far otherwise, by generous love inflamed,
Patriot I praise my country's foreign Son,
Rejoicing in the blaze of good and great
That diadems thy head!—go on, go on,
Young Hercules, thus travelling in might,
Boy-Plato, filling all the West with light,
Thou new Themistocles for enterprise,
Go on and prosper, Acolyte of Fate!
And, precious child, dear Ephraim, turn those eyes,—
For thee thy Mother's yearning heart doth wait.
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