England and Louis Napoleon (May 1859)

Majestic Mother! Thine was not a brow
To bend, and blindly take a tinsel Crown
From hands like His. Thy glorious Sons have won
More crowns than thou canst wear, though all the
year
A fresh one glistened daily. These are crowns
Untarnishable by the breath of scorn!
The crowns that never can be melted down
And minted for the market. Thine was not
A soul to wear the fetters that made fast
His stolen throne to him, and gracefully
To drape the Imperial Purple round, and hide
The blood that splashed there, red till Judgment
Day.
He stole on France, deflowered her in the night,
Then tore her tongue out lest she told the tale;
And Statesmen called him friend, and proudly held
Our Banner over him, while moneyed worldlings,
So pleased they knew not on which leg to stand,
Went on their knees, and worshipped his success, —
So prostrate in their souls, so prone in dust,
They saw not how the feet were only clay,
For all the golden Image; they forgot
How meanest reptiles crawl up tallest towers.

Our England is long-suffering, and slow
Of judgment, lulled by seeming to the last.
And they are busy dreaming their dark dreams,
While she is sleeping sound in trustful peace.
'Tis wrell for thee, my Country, when the day
Breaks, thou canst never match them in the dark!

Thine eyes are blind where Birds of night see best.
But instinct, that Veiled Prophet of the Soul,
Flashes up, startled from its seeing trance,
As though God's hand had touched it while we
slept.
There's some invisible danger drawing near,
That hath not taken shape yet, but it comes.
The still small voice cries wake, my Country, wake,
And sleep no more while that Man's in the world.
The treacherous dealer will deal treacherously;
The lawless Power is still above all Law!
The Foe that cometh at the dead of night
May find the Goodman slumbering with the arms
Too rusted on the walls. Make the Sword sharp;
Watch warily, you lookers from the hill!
Arm every rampart, rock, and tower of Right,
And arm the people; thus, securely armed,
We may sit safe and hold the hands of War
In ours, he cannot strike vis for the time.

Once more the War-wave surges gaily out
From Paris with its gallant armaments,
In music's pomp, and bannered pride, and dance
Of life light-hearted, and light-headed crests.

The Ghost of Buonaparte hath broken loose
With Buin's lighted torch half hidden in
The Devil's own dark lanthorn. We shall see
The night-side of Napoleon, as he tracks
His old earth foot-prints black with rusted blooJ.

Alas for Italy! the Storm of War
From its fire-mountain throne sweeps burning down,
Its purple lava-mantle trails behind,
Embracing all and blasting all it folds.

A sea of soldiery breaks over her;

Her fair face darkens in the shadow of Swords;

I destruction drives his ploughshare through her soil,
I tut will he turn her old lost Jewel to light?

Another crop of young heroic life
[a ready for the Reaper j it springs fast
In such a land, so watered, with such blood.

Poor Fools! this Despot turned Deliverer is
A sneaking Cutpurse, not a Cutthroat grand,
Like him that lifted up a Sword of tire,
Whose flashes frightened nations, and went forth,
A prairie-flame consuming men as grass:

How dazzlingly his beacon-star that danced
From crown to crown did shine above the lands
He covered with his purple and his pall!

He stormed the dizziest heights, and there he stood
In sanguine glory! Like a Battle-God
Ruling the strife with face of marble calm!

The eyes of Heaven that look down on us with
The earnestness of all eternity,
Saw our old world turn blood-red mirroring Him!

Napoleon dilated till he filled
The vision of France instead of Liberty.

And such the glamour of his grandeur, She
Knew not which Image crowned the Column lifted
A heaven above her, in her love and worship.

But this Man leads her eyeless, blind in blood.

He bears a Burglar's Bludgeon, not a Sword:

Great Oath-breaker, and not World-Victor He.

How far the tide may flood, how quick return
With wreck and ruin for its freightage home,
We know not, nor how soon the nether pit
May open and stern Nemesis rise up
For vengeance infinitely terrible!

As in the grim Norse myth Loke lieth bound
Down at the heart o' the world, so Tyranny keeps
A potent spirit fettered underground,
And o'er it hangs a Serpent horrible,
With eyes through which all hell crowds up to see
The poison-fire spit in that Spirit's face;
In straining waves it writhes along to squeeze
Its soul of venom into every drop:;

And there sits "Wife-like Patience at the side,
Catching the poison till her cup will hold
No more, and she must empty it. Ah then
The poison burns! and with one great heart-heave
That Spirit's bonds are burst! an Earthquake's
born.

These Despots do but throw with loaded dice;
They lose or win by other will than theirs!
A Goddess blind leads worshippers as blind.
Henceforth we have no part in this man's lot,
No faith in him; he goes his way, we ours:
If we were true to him we must be false
To all our dearest deeds and noblest dreams!
We are no close-chained Mob for one to walk
Over our heads, and kiss the feet that tread!
Our welding oneness binds up all our wounds,
And one heart and one breath make healing life.
We trust in God, and mean to hold our own.
We are not stainless; there are wrongs on wrongs
Crying for Right! the patient heavens have looked
On many a failing sadly! England's Star
Hath winked on many a crime, and through the
gloom
Suffering still doggeth Sin, to strike at last.
May God forgive us, we are apt to grow
Unmindful of our blessings, and forget
That this is England, and forget how He
Hath wrought for England; that the sacred Ark
Rests on this Ararat; we dare not face
The world with that same faith we dare profess
Kneeling to God. And so at times we need
A hint from Heaven, and these are often stern.

May God forsake not England, but in need
Look smilingly upon her!

We at least
"Will never run beside this Tyrant's car
Of triumph, glorying in the dust we raise!
Our voice at least shall cry aloud his fall,
Though but a lonely trumpet in the night,
And spare not him who plots agaiust us all.

O Statesmen, ye who lead this noble land,
May you prove wise and worthy! Great gcod
Men,
With hearts that beat to high heroic measures,
And strength still equal to the sternest time;
With faith to fight and patience to work on,
Still knowing these live longer than a Lie!
The pyramid of our power is not complete
Until it touches heaven for its crown!
And if the Bloody Star should turn this way
Its red eye of destruction, fierce to see
The pride and prowess of our might go down
With England for funereal pyre; then give
K o quarter to the foes that aim at us!
Through fire and foam flash on them, and strike
home
Like Lightnings of the Lord! fuel the flames
Of Battle with the Revolution's wrecks
That drift upon our shores. In Tyrant-land
A young Deliverer lies a-dream, and sees
Such splendours in his vision only eyes
When veiled can look on! tell him the time's
come!
He will arise and stretch his hand and snatch
The Sword. It will be Resurrection Day!
The Tyrant's fortresses and palaces
Built with the Headsman's scaffold will dissolve;
The piles of ghastly, gory heads shall turn
To flaming-sworded Spirits! the dry bones
Will stir and rise up, and the Dead shall live.

You Lovers of our England, do but look
On this dear Country over whose fair face
God drooped a bridal veil of tender mist,
That she might keep her beauty virginal,
And He might see her through a softer glory;
So very meek and reverent doth she stand
Within this shadow soft of Love Divine,
More lovable, and not as brighter lands
Whose bolder beauty stares up in heaven's face.
Look on her now, this jewel of the world,
Set in that marriage-ring of circling sea!
She smiles upon her Image in its calm,
Like some proud Ship that floateth in its shadow.
And as a happy Lover clasps his Bride,
The fond Sea folds her round, and his brimmed life
Buns rippling to her inmost heart of hearts,
Until it swims a-flood with happiness;
And all the waters of her love leap back
To him exultant from a thousand hills.
From his salt virtue comes her northern sweet iks.
How his rough kisses make her roses bloom!

Once in his roused wrath he lifted up
A mighty Armada in his arms, and dashed
It into sea-drift at his Mistress' feet.

And still he threatens -with his voice of storms
The plots of all Invaders; still he keeps
Eternal watch around. How proud in peace,
The wild white horses rear and foam along
And bring to her the Harvests of the world!

How grand in war they bear her battle-line
In strength half-smiling, perfect Power crowned
"With careless grace, which seemeth to all eyes
The plume of Triumph nodding as it goes;

For visible victory sits upon her brow,
And shines upon her sails.

See where She sits
Holding at heart her noble dead, and nursing
Her living Children on the old brave virtue;
Wearing the rainy radiance of the morning,
AVith silver sweetness swimming in her tears,
Feeling the glory rippling down from heaven,
With smiles from all her wild flowers, her green
leaves,
And nooks where Old Times live their Shepherd
ways.
We cannot count her heroes who lay down
In quiet graveyards when their work was done;
But mound on mound they rise all over the land
To bar a Tyrant's path, and make his feet
To stumble like the blind man among tombs.
Her brave dead make our earth heroic dust;
Their spirit glitters in our England's face
And makes her shine, a Star in blackest night,
Calm at her heart, and glory round her head.
W'e think of all who fought, and who are now
Immortals in the heaven of her love;

The Martyrs who have made of burning wrongs
Their fiery chariot, and gone up to God;

The saintly Sorrows that now walk in white;

Till faces bloom like battle-Banners flushed
All over with most glorious memories.

We are a Chosen People; Freedom wears
Our English Rose for her peculiar crest,
Whoso dares touch it bleeds upon the thorn!

It may be that the time will come again
For one more desperate struggle to the death.

The eye of Evil on our England looks
With snaky sparkle still. It may be they
Will rouse the old Berserkir rage, and make
The vein of wrath throb livid on her brow,
And wake the grim Norse Wai--dog in her blood,
Until she springs afloat upon the sea
Like an Immortal white-winged on the air,
The joy of swiftness lightning through her veins.

Thrice hath our England swept the Seas, and
cleared
Her Ocean-path, the Highways of the world,
And will again if Robbers lie in wait.
She hath stood fast when towering Nations hurled
In one vast wave their culminating power!
Through all that harvest-day of bloody death,
They charged in vain, and dashed upon the edge
Of her red sword, and fell, at Waterloo!
We kept the shamble-slopes of Inkerman!
Through blood and fire and gloom of Indian War
We swam the Red Sea, and rode out the storm!
So shall we hold our own dear land with all
The old unvanquished soul, and we shall see
Their changing Empires shift like sand around
The Island Rock, the footstool of the Lord,
Where Freedom also lays her head, and rest
In calm or storm the best hopes of a world.

Ah, let the Peacemen preach, but let our Peace
Be Peace white-robed and not white-livered Peace;
Be Right victorious, not triumphant Wrong!
These pallid Peacemen are to true men what
Our world might be without its Iron Ore;
But never may the grand old bravery die.
No, no! we must not let the death-fires dance
Along our heights with their funereal flames,
As Hell had thrust up many red-hot tongues
To get its lap of gore when earth is drenched.
Our green fields shall not blush in blood for us!
We will not let them pluck the old land down
To throne them in her seat; they must not wear
The Crown she raced for round the world and won.
Our Country has a name and fame might fill
The eyes of Hate and Envy with tame tears;
And they shall never lay her low while we
Aii' true to her in heart and head and hand.
And all who come in peace will find a home,
And all who come in war a mouthful of
Our dust in death, and Sea-beach for a grave.

Great starry thoughts grow luminous in the dark;

The Bird of Hope soars singing overhead!

We cannot fear for England, we can die
To do her bidding, but we cannot fear:

We who have heard her thunder-roll of deeds
Reverberating through the centuries;

By battle fire-light had the stories told;

We who have seen how proudly she prepared
For sacrifice, how radiantly her face
Flashed when the Bugle blew its bloody sounds,
And bloody weather fluttered her old Flag;

We who have seen her with the red heaps round;

We who have known the mightiest Powers dashed
back
Broken from her impregnable sea-walls;
We who have learned how in the darkest hour
The greatest light breaks out, and in the time
Of trial she reveals her noblest strength;
We do not, will not, cannot fear for Her,
We who have felt her big heart beat in ours.

Hail to Thee, Mother of Nations! mighty yet
To strive, or suffer', and give overthrow!
For all the Powers of nature fight for thee.
Spirits that sleep in glory shall awake,
Come down and drive thy Car of victory
Over thine enemies' necks. Thy past renown
Shall turn to future strength. Long will they wait
Who privily lurk to stab thee when the Night
Shall cover all in darkness.

Dear old Land,
Thy shining glories are no Sunset gleams,
But clouds that kindle round some great new
Dawn!