Classic Poem

(Written during a European war crisis)


Not as one muttering in a spell-bound sleep
Shall England speak the word;
Not idly bid the embattled lightnings leap,
Nor lightly draw the sword!

Let statesmen grope by night in a blind dream,
The cold clear morning star
Should like a trophy in her helmet gleam
When England sweeps to war!

Not like a derelict, drunk with surf and spray,
And drifting down to doom;
But like the Sun-god calling up the day
Should England rend that gloom.

Not as in trance, at some hypnotic call,
Nor with a doubtful cry;
But a clear faith, like a banner above us all,
Rolling from sky to sky.

She sheds no blood to that vain god of strife
Whom striplings call "renown";
She knows that only they who reverence life
Can nobly lay it down;

And these will ride from child and home and love,
Through death and hell that day;
But O, her faith, her flag, must burn above,
Her soul must lead the way!