Classic Poem

E NGLAND ! thy strifes are written on thy fields
In grim old characters, which studious time
Wears down to beauty, while green nature yields
Soft ivy-veils to clothe gray holds of crime,
And hides war's prints with spring-flowers that might wave
Their pale sweet selves upon a martyr's grave.
Here hath the ploughshare of the Conquest worn
The furrowed moat around a cruel tower;
There York's white roses fringe in blameless scorn
The ledge of some Lancastrian lady's bower.
Least, for my country's sake, may I regret
The fruitful angers, and good blood that ran
So hot from Royalist and Puritan,
Which in our very soil is red and throbbing yet.