Men whispered that our arm was weak,
Men said our blood was cold,

And that our hearts no longer speak
The clarion-note of old;

But let the spear and sword draw near

The sleeping lion's den,

His island shore shall start once more

To life with armed men.

England, stand fast; let heart and hand be steady;
Be thy first word thy last,-Ready, ay, ready!

Herman Charles Merivale [1806-1874]

"OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE HEIGHTS" From "On a Mourner"

Of old sat Freedom on the heights,
The thunders breaking at her feet;
Above her shook the starry lights,
She heard the torrents meet.

There in her place she did rejoice,
Self-gathered in her prophet-mind,
But fragments of her mighty voice
Came rolling on the wind.

Then stepped she down through town and field

To mingle with the human race,

And part by part to men revealed
The fullness of her face-

Grave mother of majestic works,
From her isle-altar gazing down,

Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,
And, king-like, wears the crown.

Her open eyes desire the truth.

The wisdom of a thousand years
Is in them. May perpetual youth
Keep dry their light from tears;

That her fair form may stand and shine,

Make bright our days and light our dreams, Turning to scorn with lips divine

The falsehood of extremes!

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

AN ODE

IN IMITATION OF ALCEUS

WHAT constitutes a State?

Not high-raised battlement or labored mound,

Thick wall or moated gate;

Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned;
Not bays and broad-armed ports,

Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride;
Not starred and spangled courts,

Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride.
No:-men, high-minded men,

With powers as far above dull brutes endued

In forest, brake, or den,

As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude,

Men who their duties know,

But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain;
Prevent the long-aimed blow,

And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain:-
These constitute a State;

And sovereign Law, that State's collected will,
O'er thrones and globes elate

Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill.

Smit by her sacred frown,

The fiend, Dissension, like a vapor sinks;

And e'en the all-dazzling Crown

Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.

Such was this heaven-loved isle, Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore! No more shall Freedom smile?

Shall Britons languish, and be men no more?

Since all must life resign,

Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave

'Tis folly to decline,

And steal inglorious to the silent grave.

William Jones [1746-1794]

ENGLAND, 1802

I

O FRIEND! I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, oppressed,
To think that now our life is only dressed
For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,
Or groom! We must run glittering like a brook
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:
The wealthiest man among us is the best:
No grandeur now in nature or in book
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry; and these we adore:
Plain living and high thinking are no more:
The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion breathing household laws.

II

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again,

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart;

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,

So didst thou travel on life's common way,

In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

III

Great men have been among us; hands that penned
And tongues that uttered wisdom-better none:
The later Sidney, Marvell, Harrington,

Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend.
These moralists could act and comprehend:
They knew how genuine glory was put on;
Taught us how rightfully a nation shone

In splendor: what strength was, that would not bend
But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange,
Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then.
Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change!

No single volume paramount, no code,
No master spirit, no determined road;
But equally a want of books and men!

IV

It is not to be thought of that the flood
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity
Hath flowed, "with pomp of waters, unwithstood,"
Roused though it be full often to a mood

Which spurns the check of salutary bands,-
That this most famous stream in bogs and sands

Should perish; and to evil and to good

Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung

Armory of the invincible Knights of old:

We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held.—In everything we are sprung
Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold.

V

When I have borne in memory what has tamed
Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart
When men change swords for ledgers, and desert
The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed
I had, my Country-am I to be blamed?

Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art, Verily, in the bottom of my heart,

Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.

For dearly must we prize thee; we who find
In thee a bulwark for the cause of men;
And I by my affection was beguiled:
What wonder if a Poet now and then,
Among the many movements of his mind,
Felt for thee as a lover or a child!

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

"ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND"

WHAT have I done for you,

England, my England?

What is there I would not do,
England, my own?

With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown,
England-

Round the world on your bugles blown!

Where shall the watchful Sun,

England, my England,

Match the master-work you've done,

England, my own?

When shall he rejoice agen

Such a breed of mighty men

As come forward, one to ten,

To the Song on your bugles blown,
England-

Down the years on your bugles blown?

Ever the faith endures,

England, my England:

"Take and break us: we are yours,

England, my own!