 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
288
EXPEDIENCE.
Do ill that good may come,—so Satan spake:Woe to the land deluded by that lie,
Woe to its rulers, for whose evil sake
The curse of God may now be hovering nigh:
Up, England! and avert it: boldly break
The spells of sorceress Rome, and cast away
The cords of bad expedience: is it wise,
Or right, or safe, for some chance gains to-day
To dare sure vengeance on to-morrow's skies?
Be wiser thou, dear Land, my native home,
Do always good, do good that good may come;
The path of duty lieth before thee plain,
Turn from the harlot speech of papal Rome,
For none who go that way return again.
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