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!

Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England-

To the stars on your bugles blown!"

They call you proud and hard,

England, my England:

You with worlds to watch and ward,

England, my own!

You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies,

You could know nor dread nor ease

Were the Song on your bugles blown,
England,

Round the Pit on your bugles blown!

Mother of Ships whose might

England, my England,

Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,

Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,
There's the menace of the Word

In the Song on your bugles blown,
England-

Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]

ENGLAND

THERE she sits in her Island-home,

Peerless among her Peers!

And Liberty oft to her arms doth come,

To ease its poor heart of tears.

Old England still throbs with the muffled fire

Of a past she can never forget:

And again shall she herald the world up higher;
For there's life in the Old Land yet.

They would mock at her now, who of old looked forth

In their fear, as they heard her afar;

But loud will your wail be, O Kings of the Earth!

When the Old Land goes down to the war.

The Avalanche trembles, half-launched, and half-riven,
Her voice will in motion set:

O ring out the tidings, wide-reaching as Heaven!
There's life in the Old Land yet.

The old nursing Mother's not hoary yet,
There is sap in her ancient tree:

She lifteth a bosom of glory yet,

Through her mists, to the Sun and the Sea

Fair as the Queen of Love, fresh from the foam,

Or a star in a dark cloud set;

Ye may blazon her shame,-ye may leap at her name,—

But there's life in the Old Land yet.

Let the storm burst, you will find the Old Land

Ready-ripe for a rough, red fray!

She will fight as she fought when she took her stand

For the Right in the olden day.

Rouse the old royal soul; Europe's best hope

Is her sword-edge for Victory set!

She shall dash Freedom's foes down Death's bloody slope;

For there's life in the Old Land yet.

Gerald Massey [1828-1907]

THE SONG OF THE BOW

From "The White Company "

WHAT of the bow?

The bow was made in England:

Of true wood, of yew-wood,

The wood of English bows;

So men who are free

Love the old yew-tree

And the land where the yew-tree grows.

What of the cord?

The cord was made in England:

A rough cord, a tough cord,

A cord that bowmen love; d

And so we will sing

Of the hempen string

And the land where the cord was wove.

What of the shaft?

The shaft was cut in England:

A long shaft, a strong shaft,

Barbed and trim and true;

So we'll drink all together

To the gray goose-feather
And the land where the gray goose flew.

What of the mark?

Ah, seek it not in England:

A bold mark, our old mark,

Is waiting over-sea.

When the strings harp in chorus,

And the lion flag is o'er us,

It is there that our mark will be.

What of the men?

The men were bred in England:

The bowmen-the yeomen,

The lads of dale and fell.

Here's to you and to you!

To the hearts that are true

And the land where the true hearts dwell.
Arthur Conan Doyle [1859-

AN ENGLISH MOTHER

EVERY week of every season out of English ports go forth, White of sail or white of trail, East, or West, or South, or

North,

Scattering like a flight of pigeons, half a hundred home-sick

ships,

Bearing half a thousand striplings each with kisses on his

lips

Of some silent mother, fearful lest she show herself too fond, Giving him to bush or desert as one pays a sacred bond,