mountains, Of gleaming white palaces Girt with cool fountains, Of minsters where every Carved stone is a treasure, Of sweet music hovering ’Twixt pain and ’twixt pleasure; Of chambers enrich’d On all sides, overhead, With the deathless creations Of hands that are dead; Of still cloisters holy, And twilight arcade, Where the lovers still saunter Thro’ chequers of shade; Of tomb and of temple, Arena and column, ’Mid to-day’s garish splendours, Sombre and solemn; Of the marvellous town With the salt-flowing street, Where colour burns deepest, And music most sweet; Of her the great mother, Who centuries sate ’Neath a black shadow blotting p. 12The days she was great; Who was plunged in such shame— She, our source and our home— That a foul spectre only Was left us of Rome; She who, seeming to sleep Through all ages to be, Was the priest’s, is mankind’s,— Was a slave, and is free!

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I turn with grave thought To this child of the ages, And to all that is writ In Time’s hidden pages. Shall young Howards or Guelphs, In the days that shall come, Wander forth, seeking bread, Far from England and home?

Shall they sail to new continents, English no more, Or turn—strange reverse— To the old classic shore? Shall fair locks and blue eyes, And the rose on the cheek, Find a language of pity The tongue cannot speak— “Not English, but angels?” Shall this tale be told Of Romans to be As of Romans of old? Shall they too have monkeys And music? Will any p. 13Try their luck with an engine Or toy spinning-jenny?

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Shall we too be led By that mirage of Art Which saps the true strength Of the national heart? The sensuous glamour, The dreamland of grace, Which rot the strong manhood They fail to replace; Which at once are the glory, The ruin, the shame, Of the beautiful lands And ripe souls whence they came?

Oh, my England! oh, Mother Of Freemen! oh, sweet, Sad toiler majestic, With labour-worn feet! Brave worker, girt round, Inexpugnable, free, With tumultuous sound And salt spume of the sea, Fenced off from the clamour Of alien mankind By the surf on the rock, And the shriek of the wind, Tho’ the hot Gaul shall envy, The cold German flout thee, Thy far children scorn thee, Still thou shalt be great, Still march on uncaring, Thy perils unsharing, p. 14Alone, and yet daring Thy infinite fate. Yet ever remembering The precepts of gold That were written in part For the great ones of old— “Let other hands fashion The marvels of art; 

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