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Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England-

To the stars on your bugles blown!"

They call you proud and hard,

England, my England:

You with worlds to watch and ward,

England, my own!

You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies,

You could know nor dread nor ease

Were the Song on your bugles blown,
England,

Round the Pit on your bugles blown!

Mother of Ships whose might

England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,

Chosen daughter of the Lord,

Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,
There's the menace of the Word

In the Song on your bugles blown,
England-

Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
William Ernest Henley [1849-1903]

ENGLAND

THERE she sits in her Island-home,

Peerless among her Peers!

And Liberty oft to her arms doth come,

To ease its poor heart of tears.

Old England still throbs with the muffled fire

Of a past she can never forget:

And again shall she herald the world up higher;
For there's life in the Old Land yet.

They would mock at her now, who of old looked forth

In their fear, as they heard her afar;

But loud will your wail be, O Kings of the Earth!
When the Old Land goes down to the war.

The Avalanche trembles, half-launched, and half-riven,
Her voice will in motion set:

O ring out the tidings, wide-reaching as Heaven!
There's life in the Old Land yet.

The old nursing Mother's not hoary yet,

There is sap in her ancient tree:

She lifteth a bosom of glory yet,

Through her mists, to the Sun and the Sea—

Fair as the Queen of Love, fresh from the foam,

Or a star in a dark cloud set;

Ye may blazon her shame,-ye may leap at her name,— But there's life in the Old Land yet.

Let the storm burst, you will find the Old Land

Ready-ripe for a rough, red fray!

She will fight as she fought when she took her stand

For the Right in the olden day.

Rouse the old royal soul; Europe's best hope

Is her sword-edge for Victory set!

She shall dash Freedom's foes down Death's bloody slope;

For there's life in the Old Land yet.

Gerald Massey [1828–1907]

THE SONG OF THE BOW

From "The White Company "

WHAT of the bow?

The bow was made in England:

Of true wood, of yew-wood,

The wood of English bows;

So men who are free

Love the old yew-tree

And the land where the yew-tree grows.

What of the cord?

The cord was made in England:

A rough cord, a tough cord,

A cord that bowmen love;

And so we will sing

Of the hempen string

And the land where the cord was wove.

What of the shaft?

The shaft was cut in England:
A long shaft, a strong shaft,
Barbed and trim and true;
So we'll drink all together

To the gray goose-feather
And the land where the gray goose flew.

What of the mark?

Ah, seek it not in England:

A bold mark, our old mark,

Is waiting over-sea.

When the strings harp in chorus,
And the lion flag is o'er us,

It is there that our mark will be.

What of the men?

The men were bred in England:
The bowmen-the yeomen,

The lads of dale and fell.

Here's to you-and to you!

To the hearts that are true

And the land where the true hearts dwell.
Arthur Conan Doyle [1859-

AN ENGLISH MOTHER

EVERY week of every season out of English ports go forth, White of sail or white of trail, East, or West, or South, or

North,

Scattering like a flight of pigeons, half a hundred home-sick

ships,

Bearing half a thousand striplings—each with kisses on his

lips

Of some silent mother, fearful lest she show herself too fond, Giving him to bush or desert as one pays a sacred bond,

-Tell us, you who hide your heartbreak, which is sadder,

when all's done,

To repine, an English mother, or to roam, an English son?

You who shared your babe's first sorrow when his cheek no longer pressed

On the perfect, snow-and-roseleaf beauty of your motherbreast,

In the rigor of his nurture was your woman's mercy mute, Knowing he was doomed to exile with the savage and the

brute?

Did you school yourself to absence all his adolescent years, That, though you be torn with parting, he should never see the tears?

Now his ship has left the offing for the many-mouthed

sea,

This your guerdon, empty heart, by empty bed to bend the knee!

And if he be but the latest thus to leave your dwindling board,

Is a sorrow less for being added to a sorrow's hoard?

Is the mother-pain the duller that to-day his brothers stand,

Facing ambuscades of Congo or alarms of Zululand?

Toil, where blizzards drift the snow like smoke across the plains of death?

Faint, where tropic fens at morning steam with fever-laden breath?

Die, that in some distant river's veins the English blood may

run

Mississippi, Yangtze, Ganges, Nile, Mackenzie, Amazon?

Ah! you still must wait and suffer in a solitude untold While your sisters of the nations call you passive, call you cold

Still must scan the news of sailings, breathless search the slow gazette,

Find the dreadful name . and, later, get his blithe farewell! And yet

Shall the lonely at the hearthstone shame the legions who have died

Grudging not the price their country pays for progress and for pride?

-Nay; but, England, do not ask us thus to emulate your

scars

Until women's tears are reckoned in the budgets of your

wars.

Robert Underwood Johnson [1853

AVE IMPERATRIX!

SET in this stormy Northern sea,
Queen of these restless fields of tide,
England! what shall men say of thee,
Before whose feet the worlds divide?

The earth, a brittle globe of glass,
Lies in the hollow of thy hand,

And through its heart of crystal pass,
Like shadows through a twilight land,

The spears of crimson-suited war,

The long white-crested waves of fight,
And all the deadly fires which are
The torches of the lords of Night.

The yellow leopards, strained and lean,
The treacherous Russian knows so well,
With gaping blackened jaws are seen

To leap through hail of screaming shell.

The strong sea-lion of England's wars
Hath left his sapphire cave of sea,
To battle with the storm that mars
The star of England's chivalry.

The brazen-throated clarion blows
Across the Pathan's reedy fen,
And the high steeps of Indian snows
Shake to the tread of armèd men.

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