TO ENGLAND I LEAR and Cordelia! 'twas an ancient tale Before thy Shakespeare gave it deathless fame; Spread her young banner, till its sway became Storms on thy straw-crowned head, and thou dost stand II Stand, thou great bulwark of man's liberty! Hold your proud peril! Keep watch and ward! Freemen undefiled, 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 For God; Oh ye who in eternal youth Its breathing book; live worthy of that grand And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as Spenser's dream. 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, 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, Harold the Saxon's sun went down, While the acorns were falling one autumn day. 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, And said to the maiden, pure and fair, 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, This merry old rogue with the Saxon grit. And Kett the tanner whipped out his knife, 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, 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 axeSending their notions over the oceans, To fill empty stomachs and straighten bent backs. Swift to take chances that end in the dollar, Steady for freedom, and strong in her might. Then, slow and sure, as the oaks have grown To a nobler stature will grow alway; 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, 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. |