For England Poems written during estrangement: By William Watson |
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| I. |
| II. |
| V. |
| V. |
| VII. |
| IX. |
| XI. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. | XVII METAMORPHOSIS |
| XVIII. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
 | For England |  |
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XVII
METAMORPHOSIS
The golden voices of the nobler day,
Uttering the Statesman's or the Sage's thought,
Or from the Muse's mountain fastness blown;
Great voices of great lovers of their land;
All have departed, all return no more.
Uttering the Statesman's or the Sage's thought,
Or from the Muse's mountain fastness blown;
Great voices of great lovers of their land;
All have departed, all return no more.
What of their mighty Mistress, her whom these
Gloried to serve? Behold, she staggers forth,
Paving her path with babes and sucklings slain;
Shouting her own applause, if haply so
She may shout down the hisses of the world;
Warned vainly, and rebuked by all her Past;
England, our ancient England, strange and new!
O loveliness transformed, what Comuswand
Gloried to serve? Behold, she staggers forth,
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Shouting her own applause, if haply so
She may shout down the hisses of the world;
Warned vainly, and rebuked by all her Past;
England, our ancient England, strange and new!
Hath touched thee? What enchantment hath prevailed,
That thou so deep descendest from so high,
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That painted crimson the Anatolian snows?
At least one singer, honouring evermore
Thine inmost soul through all its outward change,
Shall not, in life's last passion of farewell,
When the dark wings close over him, bear hence
The dreadful memory, that he once blasphemed,
With benison on cruelty bestowed,
The holy spirit of song; or stood at gaze,
Unto these deaths consenting, foully mute.
| For England | |