What splendour of imperial station man, The Tree of Life, may reach when, rooted fast, His branching stem points way to upper air And skyward still aspires, we see in him Who sang for us the Archangelical host, Made Morning, by old Darkness urged to the abyss; A voice that down three centuries onward rolls; Onward will roll while lives our English tongue, In the devout of music unsurpassed Since Piety won Heaven’s ear on Israel’s harp. The face of Earth, the soul of Earth, her charm, Her dread austerity; the quavering fate Of mortals with blind hope by passion swayed, His mind embraced, the while on trodden soil, Defender of the Commonwealth, he joined Our temporal fray, whereof is vital fruit, And, choosing armoury of the Scholar, stood Beside his peers to raise the voice for Freedom: Nor has fair Liberty a champion armed To meet on heights or plains the Sophister Throughout the ages, equal to this man, Whose spirit breathed high Heaven, and drew thence The ethereal sword to smite. Were England sunk Beneath the shifting tides, her heart, her brain, The smile she wears, the faith she holds, her best, Would live full-toned in the grand delivery Of his cathedral speech: an utterance Almost divine, and such as Hellespont, Crashing its breakers under Ida’s frown, Inspired: yet worthier he, whose instrument Was by comparison the coarse reed-pipe; Whereof have come the marvellous harmonies, Which, with his lofty theme, of infinite range, Abash, entrance, exalt. We need him now, This latest Age in repetition cries: For Belial, the adroit, is in our midst; Mammon, more swoln to squeeze the slavish sweat From hopeless toil: and overshadowingly (Aggrandized, monstrous in his grinning mask Of hypocritical Peace,) inveterate Moloch Remains the great example. Homage to him His debtor band, innumerable as waves Running all golden from an eastern sun, Joyfully render, in deep reverence Subscribe, and as they speak their Milton’s name, Rays of his glory on their foreheads bear.

IRELAND

Fire in her ashes Ireland feels And in her veins a glow of heat. To her the lost old time, appeals For resurrection, good to greet: Not as a shape with spectral eyes, But humanly maternal, young In all that quickens pride, and wise To speak the best her bards have sung. You read her as a land distraught, Where bitterest rebel passions seethe. Look with a core of heart in thought, For so is known the truth beneath. She came to you a loathing bride, And it has been no happy bed. Believe in her as friend, allied By bonds as close as those who wed. Her speech is held for hatred’s cry; Her silence tells of treason hid: Were it her aim to burst the tie, She sees what iron laws forbid. Excess of heart obscures from view A head as keen as yours to count. Trust her, that she may prove her true In links whereof is love the fount. May she not call herself her own? That is her cry, and thence her spits Of fury, thence her graceless tone At justice given in bits and bits. The limbs once raw with gnawing chains Will fret at silken when God’s beams Of Freedom beckon o’er the plains From mounts that show it more than dreams. She, generous, craves your generous dole; That will not rouse the crack of doom. It ends the blundering past control Simply to give her elbow-room. Her offspring feels they are a race, To be a nation is their claim; Yet stronger bound in your embrace Than when the tie was but a name. A nation she, and formed to charm, With heart for heart and hands all round. No longer England’s broken arm, Would England know where strength is found. And strength to-day is England’s need; To-morrow it may be for both Salvation: heed the portents, heed The warnings; free the mind from sloth. Too long the pair have danced in mud, With no advance from sun to sun. Ah, what a bounding course of blood Has England with an Ireland one! Behold yon shadow cross the downs, And off away to yeasty seas. Lightly will fly old rancour’s frowns When solid with high heart stand these.

THE YEARS HAD WORN THEIR SEASONS’ BELT

The years had worn their seasons’ belt, From bud to rosy prime, Since Nellie by the larch-pole knelt And helped the hop to climb. Most diligent of teachers then, But now with all to learn, She breathed beyond a thought of men, Though formed to make men burn. She dwelt where ’twixt low-beaten thorns Two mill-blades, like a snail, Enormous, with inquiring horns, Looked down on half the vale. You know the grey of dew on grass Ere with the young sun fired, And you know well the thirst one has For the coming and desired. Quick in our ring she leapt, and gave Her hand to left, to right. No claim on her had any, save To feed the joy of sight. For man and maid a laughing word She tossed, in notes as clear As when the February bird Sings out that Spring is near. Of what befell behind that scone, Let none who knows reveal. In ballad days she might have been A heroine rousing steel. On us did she bestow the hour, And fixed it firm in thought; Her spirit like a meadow flower That gives, and asks for nought. She seemed to make the sunlight stay And show her in its pride. O she was fair as a beech in May With the sun on the yonder side. There was more life than breath can give, In the looks in her fair form; For little can we say we live Until the heart is warm.

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