Classic Poem

I. SENNEI

E NGLAND , my country, my pride,
Mother and Queen, I the weak
In all else but my praise,
To thee, Mother, I speak.
If the World, hungry-eyed,
Carp at thy glory, or raise
Outcry, or, tongue in the cheek,
Scoff thee, seek to deride
Thine onset too great and too wide
For envy to hinder or check —
Think, O Mother, thy bays
Our blood hath water'd, thy side
Is girt with our sword; our days
Are thy days: be not denied.
While England stands in the sea
The sea is hers; where the wind
Bloweth from England, her grace
Spreadeth her seignory
From pole to pole is her fee,
She knoweth not strength to bind,
To slow or stay her; her face
Setteth out: but behind
The grieving horde snappeth free
And snarleth a sour grimace,
And thinketh our England blind
When she letteth them be,
And holdeth her ancient place.

But an the outcry swelleth
Too angry or vext in her ear,
Or one perchance of the rout
Poketh his searching snout
To coign of earth wherein dwelleth
One of her cubs; should she hear
The clash of arms, or the shout
Of battle ring; if she smelleth
The blood and smoke — without fear,
Without haste, with most sober cheer
She maketh ready: no flout
Stayeth her to come out
There where the trumpet foretelleth
Battle of peer with peer.

When she loost from her lair,
The grey she-lion, she stood
Proud and shaking, and lo!
Her lips curl'd back, her teeth bare,
Hinted the surge of her mood.
In her fierce eyes the blank glare
Of a light recess'd and aglow
Dared her to be withstood.
So in old days of her blood,
So when her pride in flood
Leapt, she remember'd her blow
Of Grenville and Churchill and Hood.
So she remembers now.

And England struck, and her stroke
Was heavy, and all men's breath
Stay'd to see her, and hail'd
England armour'd in oak
Oak without, but beneath
Surged and pulsed, facing Death,
The heart that never yet fail'd,
The red that never yet paled,
The tongue that never shame spoke
Sons! now heed her, she saith
" O Sons, I am slow to provoke,
Slow to wrath; I have quail'd
Only to sin. Now my teeth
Are set. What is mine, be it held."

Seed of England, O seed
Of the pack that hunted Poictiers,
Your fathers saw Nelson bleed
In Victory's hour, on her deck;
And their fathers heard with glad ears
The song of the Wolfe of Quebec!
Shall ye now, in the need
Of our Mother, hold you in check?
Shall ye sit and babble of fears?
Ye will not! The sword is freed,
The flag floateth, and quick
Shrilleth the cry — " Ho! take heed:
Heed what ye speak: England hears"

II. RALLY

To ye, whose tongue is our Shakespeare's, I speak:
England hath need of her men —
Sons of the ancient East, ye of the ardent West,
Ye of the sword, of the pen;
All who confess England Mother, who suckt
At her mighty breast,
Who drank of her milk, who bear on their brows the mark
Of her vigilant crest
Rise now, Australia, Canada! rise
India, Africa!
Speakers of English speech, servants of English Gods,
Rise, it is war! it is war!
England has never bow'd, England is quiet and proud,
Her children are free
In all save this, to rally to England's nod
For her dignity.
Brothers, the fates are fixt, nothing can stay
England's decree: —
" This much is mine to possess it; I must be queen
Over land and sea."
Choose, choose, O English, follow the Fates
Whither they lead,
Or sink back to the ruck, to the trough of the coward:
Choose ye with speed!
And to ye, once rebel, still kindred, our England speaks,
" By your ancient fires,
O by the common cradle, the larger blood
Of our common sires!
The foe shrieketh, the German, the Frenchman, the Slav,
Grown covetous,
Murmur, mutter, bluster — England alone!
Who is for us?"
Nay, who is not for England, speaking her speech,
Sharing her fame?
Will brother deliver brother to alien death,
Or wink on his shame?
O ye brothers of us, ye separate sons
Of England our Mother,
Sons of Alfred and Edward, of Richard the Lion,
Of Harry, what other
Road will ye tread? the road that even is red
With the harvest of spears,
Or the road of the base, cluster'd with Panic and Sloth
And their huddle of fears?
Choose, choose, America, England awaits
Her eldest-born's choice:
Choose, lose no time, already the rest of us shout
With one single voice —
England, Mother, rejoice!
For England, hemm'd by her resolute sons, setteth out,
And neither her foes' nor thy choice
Will hinder her path or turn her purpose about!

III. CLARION

Who that hath ever heard
His Mother's song hath not leapt,
Or her crying and hath not stirr'd?

Who in her need hath slept,
In her plenty hath not rejoiced,
At thought of her shame not wept?

Voice above all we have voiced
Is hers of the clarion shrill
And hers of the flag we hoist: —

England, our Mother still,
Our haven girdling in sea
Woodland and grassy hill;

England, born to be free
As the wind that drives in her face
Or the wave on weather and lee!

Let her but hint disgrace
On one bearing her name,
Her sons take their silent place

Rankt to do out the blame,
To wash the escutcheon clean,
To spend blood for her fame.

O English, the war-breath is keen
Now: ye have understood
Our mother's menace, I ween.

Being of the English blood,
Are ye to be withstood?
Are ye in whimpering mood?
No, by the living God!