England

While men pay reverence to mighty things, They must revere thee, thou blue-cinctured isle Of England-not to-day, but this long while In front of nations, Mother of great kings, Soldiers, and poets. Round thee the sea flings His steel-bright arm, and shields thee from the guile And hurt of France. Secure, with august smile, Thou sittest, and the East its tribute brings. Some say thy old-time power is on the wane, Thy moon of grandeur, filled, contracts at length- They see it darkening down from less to less. Let but a hostile hand make threat again, And they shall see thee in thy ancient strength, Each iron sinew quivering, lioness!