That her fair form may stand and shine, Make bright our days and light our dreams, 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; Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride; Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. 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:- And sovereign Law, that State's collected will, 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! Shall Britons languish, and be men no more? England, 1802 Since all must life resign, Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 'Tis folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent grave. 2165 William Jones [1746-1794] ENGLAND, 1802 I O FRIEND! I know not which way I must look II Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 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 III Great men have been among us; hands that penned Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend. In splendor: what strength was, that would not bend No single volume paramount, no code, No master spirit, no determined road; IV It is not to be thought of that the flood Which spurns the check of salutary bands,— 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 V When I have borne in memory what has tamed Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art, Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. For dearly must we prize thee; we who find William Wordsworth (1770-1850] "ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND" WHAT have I done for you, England, my England? What is there I would not do, With your glorious eyes austere, 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 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, Round the Pit on your bugles blown! Mother of Ships whose might England, my England, Chosen daughter of the Lord, Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword, In the Song on your bugles blown, Out of heaven on your bugles blown! 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. |