 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
272
TO A PREMIER: 1839.
Hold thy rash hand!—for Britain is no slave,Thus to be forced against her word and will;
Her voice is terrible, her heart is brave,
Her lion-nature free and fearless still:
Why make this reckless haste to compass ill?
Be, if thou canst, deliberate and grave:
For, hark! I hear upon the burden'd wind,
From fell and field and town and dale and hill,
That gathering tempest of the Nation's mind,
No peace with Rome! no league with crafty Rome!
Down with the traitor, who would smoothly bind
Her chains around us,—and whose deed would mark
With the foul beast our every hearth and home,
Changing our glorious Light to utter Dark.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |