TO ENGLAND

I

LEAR and Cordelia! 'twas an ancient tale

Before thy Shakespeare gave it deathless fame;
The times have changed, the moral is the same.
So like an outcast, dowerless and pale,
Thy daughter went; and in a foreign gale

Spread her young banner, till its sway became
A wonder to the nations. Days of shame
Are close upon thee; prophets raise their wail.
When the rude Cossack with an outstretched hand
Points his long spear across the narrow sea,-
"Lo! there is England!" when thy destiny

Storms on thy straw-crowned head, and thou dost stand
Weak, helpless, mad, a by-word in the land,—
God grant thy daughter a Cordelia be!

II

Stand, thou great bulwark of man's liberty!
Thou rock of shelter, rising from the wave,
Sole refuge to the overwearied brave
Who planned, arose, and battled to be free,
Fell, undeterred, then sadly turned to thee,-
Saved the free spirit from their country's grave,
To rise again, and animate the slave,
When God shall ripen all things. Britons, ye
Who guard the sacred outpost, not in vain

Hold your proud peril!

Freemen undefiled,

Keep watch and ward! Let battlements be piled

Around your cliffs; fleets marshalled, till the main
Sink under them; and if your courage wane,

Through force or fraud, look westward to your child!

George Henry Boker [1823-1890]

AMERICA

NOR force nor fraud shall sunder us! Oh ye
Who north or south, on east or western land,
Native to noble sounds, say truth for truth,
Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God

For God; Oh ye who in eternal youth
Speak with a living and creative flood
This universal English, and do stand

Its breathing book; live worthy of that grand
Heroic utterance parted, yet a whole,
Far, yet unsevered,-children brave and free
Of the great Mother-tongue, and ye shall be
Lords of an Empire wide as Shakespeare's soul,
Sublime as Milton's immemorial theme,

And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as Spenser's dream.

Sydney Dobell [1824-1874]

TO AMERICA

ON A PROPOSED ALLIANCE BETWEEN TWO GREAT NATIONS

WHAT is the voice I hear

On the winds of the western sea? Sentinel, listen from out Cape Clear And say what the voice may be.

'Tis a proud free people calling loud to a people proud

and free.

And it says to them: "Kinsmen, hail;

We severed have been too long.

Now let us have done with a worn-out tale

The tale of ancient wrong

And our friendship last long as our love doth last, and be

stronger than death is strong."

Answer them, sons of the self-same race,

And blood of the self-same clan;

Let us speak with each other face to face

And answer as man to man,

And loyally love and trust each other as none but free

men can.

Now fling them out to the breeze,

Shamrock, Thistle, and Rose,

And the Star-spangled Banner unfurl with these—

A message to friends and foes

Wherever the sails of peace are seen and wherever the

war wind blows

A message to bond and thrall to wake,

For whenever we come, we twain,

The throne of the tyrant shall rock and quake,

And his menace be void and vain,

For you are lords of a strong land and we are lords of the main.

Yes, this is the voice of the bluff March gale;

We severed have been too long,

But now we have done with a worn-out tale

The tale of an ancient wrong—

And our friendship shall last as love doth last and be

stronger than death is strong.

Alfred Austin [1835

SAXON GRIT

WORN with the battle of Stamford town,
Fighting the Norman by Hastings bay,
Harold the Saxon's sun went down,

While the acorns were falling one autumn day.
Then the Norman said, "I am lord of the land:
By tenor of conquest here I sit;

I will rule you now with the iron hand;"
But he had not thought of the Saxon grit.

He took the land, and he took the

men,

And burnt the homesteads from Trent to Tyne,
Made the freemen serfs by a stroke of the pen,

Eat up the corn and drank the wine,

And said to the maiden, pure and fair,
"You shall be my leman, as is most fit,
Your Saxon churl may rot in his lair;"

But he had not measured the Saxon grit.

To the merry greenwood went bold Robin Hood,

With his strong-hearted yeomanry ripe for the fray, Driving the arrow into the marrow

Of all the proud Normans who came in his way;

Scorning the fetter, fearless and free,
Winning by valor, or foiling by wit,
Dear to our Saxon folk ever is he,
This merry old rogue with the Saxon grit.

And Kett the tanner whipped out his knife,
And Watt the smith his hammer brought down,
For ruth of the maid he loved better than life,

And by breaking a head, made a hole in the Crown. From the Saxon heart rose a mighty roar,

"Our life shall not be by the King's permit; We will fight for the right, we want no more;" Then the Norman found out the Saxon grit.

For slow and sure as the oaks had grown

From acorns falling that autumn day,
So the Saxon manhood in thorpe and town
To a nobler stature grew alway;
Winning by inches, holding by clinches,
Standing by law and the human right,
Many times failing, never once quailing,
So the new day came out of the night.

Then rising afar in the Western sea,

A new world stood in the morn of the day,

Ready to welcome the brave and free,

Who would wrench out the heart and march away

From the narrow, contracted, dear old land,

Where the poor are held by a cruel bit,

To ampler spaces for heart and hand—

And here was a chance for the Saxon grit.

Steadily steering, eagerly peering,

Trusting in God your fathers came, Pilgrims and strangers, fronting all dangers, Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts aflame. Bound by the letter, but free from the fetter, And hiding their freedom in Holy Writ, They gave Deuteronomy hints in economy, And made a new Moses of Saxon grit.

They whittled and waded through forest and fen,
Fearless as ever of what might befall;
Pouring out life for the nurture of men,

In faith that by manhood the world wins all.
Inventing baked beans and no end of machines;
Great with the rifle and great with the axe-
Sending their notions over the oceans,

To fill empty stomachs and straighten bent backs.

Swift to take chances that end in the dollar,
Yet open of hand when the dollar is made,
Maintaining the meetin', exalting the scholar,
But a little too anxious about a good trade;
This is young Jonathan, son of old John,
Positive, peaceable, firm in the right,
Saxon men all of us, may we be one,

Steady for freedom, and strong in her might.

Then, slow and sure, as the oaks have grown
From the acorns that fell on that autumn day,
So this new manhood in city and town,
To a nobler stature will grow alway;
Winning by inches, holding by clinches,

Slow to contention, and slower to quit,
Now and then failing, never once quailing,
Let us thank God for the Saxon grit.

Robert Collyer [1823-1912]

AT GIBRALTAR

I

ENGLAND, I stand on thy imperial ground,
Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow,

I feel within my blood old battles flow,-
The blood whose ancient founts in thee are found.
Still surging dark against the Christian bound

While Islam presses; well its peoples know Thy heights that watch them wandering below; I think how Lucknow heard their gathering sound.