 | The Drama of Kings |  |
261
CHORIC INTERLUDE:
THE TWO VOICES.263
Spirit of England, art thou sleeping?
Soul of the Ocean, art thou fled?
Behold thy Sister is wailing and weeping;
The waves are leaping, the storm is creeping
Hither to burst on thy helmless head.
England, awake! for the sword gleams over thee—
Awake, awake! or the tomb shall cover thee—
England, awake!—if thou be not dead.
The waves are crying, the clouds are flying,
Fair France is dying—her blood flows red,
Europe in thunder is rent asunder,
But the mother of nations is lying dead.
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Weep; and pray that our tears may wake her;
Pray;—tho' prayers have been vain of old;
Scream;—tho' the thunder is weak to shake her—
In the name of the Maker, awake her, awake her:
The storm hath struck—let the bells be toll'd.
England, awake! they are weaving a shroud for thee;
Awake, awake, we are wailing aloud for thee:
They will bury thee quick, for thy pulse is cold.
O God! to be sleeping, with thy children weeping,
And the red death leaping round farm and fold:
Dark is the motion of heaven and ocean.
Why is the mother of nations cold?
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Fly to me, England! . . . Hie to me
Now in mine hour of woe;
Haste o'er the sea, ere I die, to me;
Swiftly, my Sister; stand nigh to me,
Help me to strike one blow!
Over the land and the water,
Swifter than winds can go,
Up the red furrows of slaughter,
Down on the lair of the foe:
Now, when my children scream madly and cling to me;
Now, when I droop o'er the dying they bring to me;
Come to me, England! O speak to me, spring to me!
Hurl the invader low!
Second Voice.
Woe to thee! I would go to thee
Faster than wind can flee,
Doth not my fond heart flow to thee?
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All that my love would be!
But behold, they bind me and blind me;
Cowards, yet born of me:
They fasten my hands behind me—
I am chain'd to a rock in the sea.
Alas! what availeth my grief while I sigh for thee?
Traitors have trapt me—I struggle, I cry for thee;
Come to thee, Sister?—yea, were it to die for thee!
O that my hands were free!
First Voice.
Pray for me, Sister! say for me
Prayers until help is nigh;
Send thy loud voice each way for me,
Trouble the night and the day for me,
Waken the world and the sky;
Say that my heart is broken,
Say that my children die,
With blood and tears for thy token,
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Plead to the sea and the earth and the air for me—
Move the hard heart of the world till it care for me—
Come to me, England!—at least, say a prayer for me,
Startle the winds with a cry.
Second Voice.
Doom on me, Hell's own gloom on me,
Blood and a lasting blame!
Already the dark days loom on me,
Cold as the shade of the tomb on me;
I am call'd by the coward's name.
Shall I heark to a murder'd nation?
Shall I sit unarm'd and tame?
Then woe to this generation,
Tho' out of my womb they came.
Betrayed by my children, I wail and I call for thee;
Not tears, but my heart's blood, O Sister, should fall for thee:
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Shame on them! shame! shame! shame!
First Voice.
Pain for thee! all things wane for thee
In truth, if this be so;
Fatal will be the stain for thee:
Wild tears mine eyes shall rain for thee
Since thou art left so low;
For death can come once only,
Tho' bitterly comes the blow;
But shame abideth, and lonely
Feels a sick heart come and go.
Homeless and citiless, yet I can weep for thee;
Fast comes the morrow with anguish most deep for thee;
Dying, I mourn for the sorrow they heap for thee.
Thine is the bitterest woe.
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Mourn me not, Sister, scorn me not!
Pray yet for mine and me!
Tho' the old proud fame adorn me not,
The sore grief hath outworn me not—
Wait; I will come to thee;
I will rend my chains asunder,
I will tear my red sword free,
I will come with mine ancient thunder,
I will strike the foe to his knee.
Yea, tho' the knife of the butcher is nigh to thee;
Yea, while thou screamest and echoes reply to thee;
Comfort, O France! for, in God's name, I fly to thee,
Sword in hand, over the sea.
Semi-Chorus I.
Spirit of England, false vows wrong her!
Peace; she waiteth in vain for thee.
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Ah, that thy voice is a spell no longer,
Ah, that the days of thy truth should flee.
Chorus.
Sing a song, her heart to make stronger,
Sing what the perfect State should be.
Semi-Chorus I.
Spirit of England, thou whose hoary
Cliffs gleam bright to the gleaming sea—
Semi-Chorus II.
Shut thy coffers and think of glory,
Nor pray beside them on bended knee.
Chorus.
Read in sorrow thine own bright story,
Queen of the States that were brave and free.
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Where is the perfect State
Early most blest and late,
Perfect and bright?
'Tis where no Palace stands
Trembling on shifting sands
Morning and night.
'Tis where the soil is free,
Where, far as eye may see,
Scatter'd o'er hill and lea,
Homesteads abound;
Where clean and broad and sweet
(Market, square, lane, and street,
Belted by leagues of wheat),
Cities are found.
Early most blest and late,
Perfect and bright?
'Tis where no Palace stands
Trembling on shifting sands
Morning and night.
'Tis where the soil is free,
Where, far as eye may see,
Scatter'd o'er hill and lea,
Homesteads abound;
Where clean and broad and sweet
(Market, square, lane, and street,
Belted by leagues of wheat),
Cities are found.
Where is the perfect State
Early most blest and late
Gentle and good?
'Tis where no lives are seen
Huddling in lanes unseen,
Crying for food;
'Tis where the home is pure,
'Tis where the bread is sure,
'Tis where the wants are fewer,
And each want fed;
Where plenty and peace abide,
Where health dwells heavenly-eyed,
Where in nooks beautified
Slumber the Dead.
Early most blest and late
Gentle and good?
'Tis where no lives are seen
Huddling in lanes unseen,
Crying for food;
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'Tis where the bread is sure,
'Tis where the wants are fewer,
And each want fed;
Where plenty and peace abide,
Where health dwells heavenly-eyed,
Where in nooks beautified
Slumber the Dead.
Where is the perfect State
Unvexed by Wrath and Hate,
Quiet and just?
Where to no form of creed
Fetter'd are thought and deed,
Reason and trust?
'Tis where the great free mart
Broadens, while from its heart
Forth the great ships depart,
Blown by the wind;
'Tis where the wise men's eyes,
Fixed on the earth and skies,
Seeking for signs, devise
Good for mankind.
Unvexed by Wrath and Hate,
Quiet and just?
Where to no form of creed
Fetter'd are thought and deed,
Reason and trust?
'Tis where the great free mart
Broadens, while from its heart
Forth the great ships depart,
Blown by the wind;
'Tis where the wise men's eyes,
Fixed on the earth and skies,
Seeking for signs, devise
Good for mankind.
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Where is the perfect State,
Holy and consecrate,
Blessedly wrought?
'Tis where all waft abroad
Wisdom and faith in God,
Beautiful thought.
'Tis where the poet's sense
Deepens in reverence,
While to his truths intense
Multitudes turn.
Where the bright sons of art,
Walking in street or mart,
Feel mankind's reverent heart
Tremble and yearn.
Holy and consecrate,
Blessedly wrought?
'Tis where all waft abroad
Wisdom and faith in God,
Beautiful thought.
'Tis where the poet's sense
Deepens in reverence,
While to his truths intense
Multitudes turn.
Where the bright sons of art,
Walking in street or mart,
Feel mankind's reverent heart
Tremble and yearn.
Say, is the perfect State,
Strong and self-adequate,
There where it stands,
Perfect in praise of God,
Casting no thoughts abroad
Over the lands?
Nay; for by each man's side
Hangeth a weapon tried;
Nay, for wise leaders guide
Under the Lord.
Nor, when a people cries,
Smiling with half-shut eyes
Waiteth this State,—but flies,
Lifting the Sword.
Strong and self-adequate,
There where it stands,
Perfect in praise of God,
Casting no thoughts abroad
Over the lands?
Nay; for by each man's side
Hangeth a weapon tried;
Nay, for wise leaders guide
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Nor, when a people cries,
Smiling with half-shut eyes
Waiteth this State,—but flies,
Lifting the Sword.
Where is the perfect State?
Not where men sit and wait,
Selfishly strong;
While some lost sister State
Crieth most desolate,
Ruin'd by wrong:
Not where men calmly sleep,
Tho' all the world should weep;
Not where they merely heap
Gold in the sun:
Not where in charity
Men with mere dust are free,
When o'er the weary sea
Murder is done.
Not where men sit and wait,
Selfishly strong;
While some lost sister State
Crieth most desolate,
Ruin'd by wrong:
Not where men calmly sleep,
Tho' all the world should weep;
Not where they merely heap
Gold in the sun:
Not where in charity
Men with mere dust are free,
When o'er the weary sea
Murder is done.
Which is the perfect State?
Not the self-adequate
Coward and cold;
Not the brute thing of health,
Swollen with gather'd wealth,
Sleepy and old.
Nay, but the mighty land
Ever with helping hand,
Ever with flaming brand,
Rising in power:
This is the fair and great,
This the evangel State,
Letting no wrong'd land wait
In the dark hour.
Not the self-adequate
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Not the brute thing of health,
Swollen with gather'd wealth,
Sleepy and old.
Nay, but the mighty land
Ever with helping hand,
Ever with flaming brand,
Rising in power:
This is the fair and great,
This the evangel State,
Letting no wrong'd land wait
In the dark hour.
This is the perfect State,
Early in arms and late;
Blessed at home;—
Ready at Freedom's cry
Forward to fare and die,
Over the foam.
Loving States great and small,
Loving home best of all,
Yet at the holy call
Springing abroad:
This is the royal State,
Perfect and adequate,
Equal to any fate,
Chosen of God!
Early in arms and late;
Blessed at home;—
Ready at Freedom's cry
Forward to fare and die,
Over the foam.
Loving States great and small,
Loving home best of all,
Yet at the holy call
Springing abroad:
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Perfect and adequate,
Equal to any fate,
Chosen of God!
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