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All freedom vanish'd, His soldier-ridden Highness might in
The true men banish'd, He triumphs; maybe we shall stand alone. To take Sardinia, Belgium, or the Rhine: Britons, guard your own.
Shall we stand idle,
Nor seek to bridle Peace-lovers we — sweet Peace we all His rude aggressions, till we stand alone! desire
Make their cause your own. Peace-lovers we – but who can trust a liar ?
Should he land here, and for one hour Peace-lovers, haters
prevail, Of shameless traitors,
There must no man go back to bear the We hate not France, but this man's heart
No man to bear it -
Swear it! we swear it ! We hate not France, but France has lost Although we fight the banded world her voice.
alone, This man is France, the man they call
We swear to guard our own.
THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY,1852.*
My lords, we heard you speak ; you told
us all “Vive l’Empereur” may follow by and That England's honest censure went by;
too far; “God save the Queen" is here a truer cry. That our free press should cease to brawl, God save the Nation,
Not sting the fiery Frenchman into The toleration,
war. And the free speech that makes a Briton It was an ancient privilege, my lords, known.
To fling whate'er we felt, not fearing, inBritons, guard your own.
to words. Rome's dearest daughter now is captive | We love not this French God, this child France,
of Hell, The Jesuit laughs, and reckoning on his Wild War, who breaks the converse of chance,
the wise ; Would unrelenting,
But though we love kind Peace so well, Kill all dissenting, Till we were left to fight for truth alone.
We dare not, e'en by silence, sanction
lies. Britons, guard your own.
It might safe be our censures to withdraw; Call home your ships across Biscayan
And yet, my lords, not well; there is a tides,
higher law. To blow the battle from their oaken sides. Why waste they yonder
| As long as we remain, we must speak free, Their idle thunder?
I Though all the storm of Europe on us Why stay they there to guard a foreign
"No little German state are we,
But the one voice in Europe ; we must
speak ; We were the best of marksmen long ago, That if to-night our greatness were We won old battles with our strength, struck dead, the bow.
There might remain some record of the Now practice, yeomen,
things we said. Like those bowmen, Till your balls fly as their shafts have If you be fearful, then must we be bold. flown.
Our Britain cannot salve a tyrant o'er. Yeomen, guard your own. I • The Examiner, nga, and signed "Morlin."
Better the waste Atlantic roll'd
| That man 's the best cosmopolite On her and us and ours for evermore. Who loves his native country best. What ! have we fought for freedom from May freedom's oak for ever live our prime,
With stronger life from day to day ; At last to dodge and palter with a pub. That man's the best Conservative lic crime?
Who lops the mouldered branch away.
Hands all round ! Shall we fear him ? our own we never God the tyrant's hope confound ! feared.
To this great cause of Freedom drink, my From our first Charles by force we
friends, wrung our claims,
And the great name of England, round Prick'd by the Papal spur, we rear'd,
and round. And flung the burden of the second
A health to Europe's honest men !
Heaven guard them from her tyrants' We broke them on the land, we drove
jails! them on the seas.
From wronged Poerio's noisome den,
From iron limbs and tortured nails ! And you, my lords, you make the people We curse the crimes of southern kings, muse,
The Russian whips and Austrian rodsIy doubt if you be of our Barons' breed We likewise have our evil things ; Were those your sires who fought at Too much we make our Ledgers, Gods. Lewes ?
Yet hands all round ! Is this the manly strain of Runnymede? God the tyrant's cause confound ! O fall'n nobility, that, overawed, To Europe's better health we drink, my Would lisp in honey'd whispers of this
friends, monstrous fraud.
And the great name of England, round
and round ! We feel, at least, that silence here were
What health to France, if France be she, sin.
Whom martial progress only charms ? Not ours the fault if we have feeble
Yet tell her — better to be free hosts —
Than vanquish all the world in arms. If easy patrons of their kin
Her frantic city's flashing heats Have left the last free race with naked
But fire, to blast, the hopes of men. coasts !
Why change the titles of your streets ! They knew the precious things they had
You fools, you 'll want them all again. to guard : For us, we will not spare the tyrant one! God the tyrant's cause confound !
Hands all round! hard word.
To France, the wiser France, we drink,
my friends, Though niggard throats of Manchester
And the great name of England, round may bawl, What England was, shall her true sons
and round. forget ?
Gigantic daughter of the West, We are not cotton-spinners all,
We drink to thee across the flood, But some love England, and her honor | We know thee and we love thee best, yet.
For art thou not of British blood ? And these in our Thermopylæshall stand, Should war's mad blast again be blown, And hold against the world the honor of
Permit not thou the tyrant powers the land.
To fight thy mother here alone,
Hands all round !
God the tyrant's cause confound !
| To our dear kinsmen of the West, my First drink a health, this solemn night,
friends, A health to England, every guest; And the great name of England, round • The Examiner, 1852, and signed " Merlin."
O rise, our strong Atlantic sons,
ON A SPITEFUL LETTER. * When war against our freedom springs ! O speak to Europe through your guns! HERE, it is here - the close of the year,
They can be understood by kings. And with it a spiteful letter. You must not mix our Queen with those My fame in song has done him much That wish to keep their people fools;
wrong, Our freedom's foemen are her foes,
For himself has done much better. She comprehends the race she rules. Hands all round!
| O foolish bard, is your lot so hard, God the tyrant's cause confound ! If men neglect your pages ? To our dear kinsman in the West, my I think not much of yours or of mine : friends,
I hear the roll of the ages. And the great name of England, round and round.
This fallen leaf, is n't fame as brief?
My rhymes may have been the stronger.
Yet hate me not, but abide your lot; THE WAR. *
I last but a moment longer. THERE is a sound of thunder afar,
O faded leaf, is n't fame as brief? Storm in the South that darkens the What room is here for a hater? day,
| Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener leaf, Storm of battle and thunder of war,
For it hangs one moment later.
Greater than 1-is n't that your cry? Ready, be ready to meet the storm !
And I shall live to see it. Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form ! | Well, if it be so, so it is, you know ; Be not deaf to the sound that warns !
And if it be so ---so be it! Be not gull'd by a despot's plea!
O summer leaf, is n't life as brief? Are figs of thistles, or grapes of thorns ? | But this is the time of hollies. How should a despot set men free?
| And my heart, my heart is an evergreen: Form ! forin ! Riflemen form !
I hate the spites and the follies. Ready, be ready to meet the storm !
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form ! Let your Reforms for a moment go,
1865 – 1866.+ Look to your butts and take good aims.
I stood on a tower in the wet,
| And New Year and Old Year met, Form ! form ! Riflemen form !
And winds were roaring and blowing ; Ready, be ready to meet the storm ! |
And I said, “years that meet in Riflemen, riflemen, ritlemen form !
Have ye aught that is worth the know. Form, be ready to do or die !
ing? Form in Freedoin's name and the Science enough and exploring, Queen's !
Wanderers coming and going, True, that we have a faithful ally, Matter enough for deploring, But only the Devil knows what he But aught that is worth the knowing ?' means.
Seas at my feet were flowing, Form ! form ! Riflemen form ! Waves on the shingle pouring, Ready, be ready to meet the storm ! Old Year roaring and blowing, Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form! And New Year blowing and roaring.
. Once a Week, January 4, 1868. • London Times May 9, 1859.
+ Good Words, March, 1868.
OR, THE SONGS OF THE WRENS.
WORDS WRITTEN FOR MUSIC.
THE MUSIC BY ARTHUR SULLIVAN.
Four years ago Mr. Sullivan requested me to write a little song-cycle, German fashion, for him to exercise his art upon. He had been very successful in setting such old songs as “Orpheus with his lute," and I drest up for him, partly in the old style, a puppet whose almost only merit is, perhaps, that it can dance to Mr. Sullivan's instrument. I am sorry that my four-year-old puppet should have to dance at all in the dark shadow of these days ; but the music is now completed, and I am bound by my promise.
A. TENNYSON. December, 1870.
And it brightens and darkens ark! ON THE HILL.
brightens like my hope,
And it darkens and brightens and darkThe lights and shadows fly!
ens like my fear, Yonder it brightens and darkens down
And the winds are up in the mornon the plain.
ing. A jewel, a jewel dear to a lover's eye! O is it the brook, or a pool, or her window-pane,
AT THE WINDOW. When the winds are up in the morning?
VINE, vine and eglantine,
Clasp her window, trail and twine ! Clouds that are racing above,
Rose, rose and clematis, And winds and lights and shadows that | Trail and twine and clasp and kiss, cannot be still,
Kiss, kiss ; and make her a bower All running on one way to the home All of flowers, and drop me a flower, of my love,
Drop me a flower. You are all running on, and I stand on the slope of the hill,
Vine, vine and eglantine, And the winds are upin the morning! Cannot a flower, a flower, be mine?
Rose, rose and clematis, Follow, follow the chase !
Drop me a flower, a flower, to kiss, And my thoughts are as quick and as Kiss, kiss -- And out of her bower quick, ever on, on, on.
All of flowers, a flower, a flower, O lights, are you flying over her sweet Propt, a flower.
little face? And my heart is there before you are
come and gone, When the winds are up in the morn
GONE ! ing!
GONE! Follow them down the slope ! Gone till the end of the year, And I follow them down to the window-Gone, and the light gone with her and pane of my dear,
left me in shadow here !
Gone — flitted away,
| You the Queen of the wrens — Taken the stars from the night and the We'll be birds of a feather, sun from the day !
I'll be King of the Queen of the wrens, Gone, and a cloud in my heart, and a And all in a nest together.
storm in the air ! Flown to the east or the west, flitted I
know not where ! Down in the south is a flash and a groan :
THE LETTER. she is there! she is there !
WHERE is another sweet as my sweet,
Fine of the fine, and shy of the shy?
Fine little hands, fine little feet -
Dewy blue eye.
Shall I write to her ? shall I go? The frost is here,
Ask her to marry me by and by ? And fuel is dear,
Somebody said that she'd say no ; And woods are sear,
Somebody knows that she 'll say ay ! And fires burn clear, And frost is here
Ay or no, if ask'd to her face ? and has bitten the heel of the going year. Ay or no, from shy of the shy ?
Go, little letter, apace, apace, Bite, frost, bite !
Fly! You roll up away from the light Fly to the light in the valley below The blue woodlouse, and the plump dor- Tell my wish to her dewy blue eye : mouse,
Somebody said that she'd say no; And the bees are still’d, and the flies are Somebody knows that she'll say ay !
killid, And you bite far into the heart of the house,
THE mist and the rain, the mist and the The fuel is all the dearer,
rain ! The fires are all the clearer,
Is it ay or no? is it ay or no ? My spring is all the nearer,
And never a glimpse of her window-pane! You have bitten into the heart of the
And I may die but the grass will grow, earth,
And the grass will grow when I am gone, But not into mine.
And the wet west wind and the world
will go on. Ay is the song of the wedded spheres,
No is trouble and cloud and storm, SPRING,
Ay is life for a hundred years,
No will push me down to the worm, BIRDS' love and birds' song
And when I am there and dead and gone, Flying here and there,
The wet west wind and the world will Birds' song and birds' love,
go on. And you with gold for hair ! Birds' song and birds' love,
The wind and the wet, the wind and the Passing with the weather,
wet ! Men's song and men's love,
Wet west wind, how you blow, you To love once and forever.
| And never a line from my lady yet ! Men's love and birds' love,
| Is it ay or no ? is it ay or no ? And women's love and men's ! Blow then, blow, and when I am gone, And you my wren with a crown of gold, The wet west wind and the world may You my Queen of the wrens !