To England

Men deemed thee fallen, did they? fallen like Rome, Coiled into self to foil a Vandal throng: Not wholly shorn of strength, but vainly strong; Weaned from thy fame by a too happy home, Scanning the ridges of thy teeming loam, Counting thy flocks, humming thy harvest song, Callous, because thyself secure, 'gainst wrong, Behind the impassable fences of the foam! The dupes! Thou dost but stand erect, and lo! The nations cluster round; and while the horde Of wolfish backs slouch homeward to their snow, Thou, 'mid thy sheaves in peaceful seasons stored, Towerest supreme, victor without a blow, Smilingly leaning on thy undrawn sword!