England’s Poet
To other voices, other majesties,
Removed this while, Peace shall resort again.
But he was with us in our darkest pain
And stormiest hour: his faith royally dyes
The colours of our cause; his voice replies
To all our doubt, dear spirit! heart and vein
Of England’s old adventure! his proud strain
Rose from our earth to the sea—breathing skies.
Even over chaos and the murdering roar
Comes that world—winning music, whose full stops
Sounded all man, the bestial and divine;
Terrible as thunder, fresh as April drops.
He stands, he speaks, the soul—transfigured sign
Of all our story, on the English shore.
