Political Sonnets

Great-hearted statesman, eagle-eyed, and pure !
Our folly, weary, as in days of old.
With one monotonously just, grew bold
To cast thy virtue from them ! We endure
(Whose honour once was like the Pole secure),
A shameless reign of brazen-faced Untruth,
Fair with false hues, the mortal foe to ruth,
And equal right. What golden salve may cure
These inward wounds ? Our fiery standards wave
Over more ravaged lands; ah, Liberty!
Once, where they dawned auroral, all thy brave
Sons rallied round triumphant ; now, the dye
Upon them is thy heart's blood— to the grave
'Tis England thrusts thee, with cold mockery !

Barren the conquest of rich, populous lands,
When the proud conqueror, foredoomed and blind,
Himself the very ground hath undermined
Beneath his legions. Wheresoe'er he stands,
Earth reels from his unfaith ; brute force commands
Now but fierce fear, even where men's hearts inclined
Lately to cherish his right rule, with bands
Of sober use, and feeling intertwined.
Light-bound for mutual service, lord and thrall.
O ye stern rocks of either continent,
Where we do murderous battle I will ye fall,
And hide from the Lamb's vengeance ? We were sent
To bless the Lord's own little ones ; we went
To roll in blood and flame their homes, and all!

England, a tyrant ! Spirits, who have fought
For Progress on the bloodless battle-fields,
Where generous Reason's mild persuasion wields
A mightier arm than ever anvil wrought !
Ye, who with life man's heritage have bought
Upon the block, the stake, the deadly plain,
Your Human Fabric, built with souls, to nought
Falls, by the ruining hands of men profane !
England, who led the vanguard of God's host,
And heralded His rule to the blind world.
Weak, alien races, robber-like, hath hurled
Earthward, and grinds with armed heel ! 'Tis
The Holy Cause, through Her black treacheries—
Freedom's great Temple-pillar prostrate lies.

Lost for a while ! Nay, we repent ! We would
Cease from inhuman insolence and crime,
And God's high name profaned, the while we climb
Stairs of grim Power, and Greed, defiled with blood,
To lay before their shrine foul idol-food
Of human welfare murdered. We dare name
The God who hath abased Himself to shame,
And want, and death, for Love, upon the
Rood,
Sue for Christ's blessing, while we crucify
His poor, who are the apple of His eye I
Now, England sober, to herself returned
From orgies of deep, drugged bewilderment.
Invokes thee, righteous patriot, whom she spurned.
Come forth, our Hope, Achilles ! from thy tent!