A WORD FOR THE COUNTRY.

Men, born of the land that for ages

Has been honoured where freedom was dear,

Till your labour wax fat on its wages

You shall never be peers of a peer.

Where might is, the right is:

Long purses make strong swords.

Let weakness learn meekness:

God save the House of Lords!

You are free to consume in stagnation:

You are equal in right to obey:

You are brothers in bonds, and the nation

Is your mother — whose sons are her prey.

Those others your brothers,

Who toil not, weave, nor till,

Refuse you and use you

As waiters on their will.

But your fathers bowed down to their masters

And obeyed them and served and adored.

Shall the sheep not give thanks to their pastors?

Shall the serf not give praise to his lord?

Time, waning and gaining,

Grown other now than then,

Needs pastors and masters

For sheep, and not for men.

If his grandsire did service in battle,

If his grandam was kissed by a king,

Must men to my lord be as cattle

Or as apes that he leads in a string?

To deem so, to dream so,

Would bid the world proclaim

The dastards for bastards,

Not heirs of England's fame.

Not in spite but in right of dishonour,

There are actors who trample your boards

Till the earth that endures you upon her

Grows weary to bear you, my lords.

Your token is broken,

It will not pass for gold:

Your glory looks hoary,

Your sun in heaven turns cold.

They are worthy to reign on their brothers,

To contemn them as clods and as carles,

Who are Graces by grace of such mothers

As brightened the bed of King Charles.

What manner of banner,

What fame is this they flaunt,

That Britain, soul-smitten,

Should shrink before their vaunt?

Bright sons of sublime prostitution,

You are made of the mire of the street

Where your grandmothers walked in pollution

Till a coronet shone at their feet.

Your Graces, whose faces

Bear high the bastard's brand,

Seem stronger no longer

Than all this honest land.

But the sons of her soldiers and seamen,

They are worthy forsooth of their hire.

If the father won praise from all free men,

Shall the sons not exult in their sire?

Let money make sunny

And power make proud their lives,

And feed them and breed them

Like drones in drowsiest hives.

But if haply the name be a burden

And the souls be no kindred of theirs,

Should wise men rejoice in such guerdon

Or brave men exult in such heirs?

Or rather the father

Frown, shamefaced, on the son,

And no men but foemen,

Deriding, cry‘ Well done’?

Let the gold and the land they inherit

Pass ever from hand into hand:

In right of the forefather's merit

Let the gold be the son's, and the land.

Soft raiment, rich payment,

High place, the state affords;

Full measure of pleasure,

But now no more, my lords.

Is the future beleaguered with dangers

If the poor be far other than slaves?

Shall the sons of the land be as strangers

In the land of their forefathers’ graves?

Shame were it to bear it,

And shame it were to see:

If free men you be, men,

Let proof proclaim you free.

‘ But democracy means dissolution:

See, laden with clamour and crime,

How the darkness of dim revolution

Comes deepening the twilight of time!

Ah, better the fetter

That holds the poor man's hand

Than peril of sterile

Blind change that wastes the land.

‘ Gaze forward through clouds that environ;

It shall be as it was in the past.

Not with dreams, but with blood and with iron,

Shall a nation be moulded to last.’

So teach they, so preach they,

Who dream themselves the dream

That hallows the gallows

And bids the scaffold stream.

‘ With a hero at head, and a nation

Well gagged and well drilled and well cowed,

And a gospel of war and damnation,

Has not empire a right to be proud?

Fools prattle and tattle

Of freedom, reason, right,

The beauty of duty,

The loveliness of light.

‘ But we know, we believe it, we see it,

Force only has power upon earth.’

So be it! and ever so be it

For souls that are bestial by birth!

Let Prussian with Russian

Exchange the kiss of slaves:

But sea-folk are free folk

By grace of winds and waves.

Has the past from the sepulchres beckoned?

Let answer from Englishmen be —

No man shall be lord of us reckoned

Who is baser, not better, than we.

No coward, empowered

To soil a brave man's name;

For shame's sake and fame's sake,

Enough of fame and shame.

Fame needs not the golden addition;

Shame bears it abroad as a brand.

Let the deed, and no more the tradition,

Speak out and be heard through the land.

Pride, rootless and fruitless,

No longer takes and gives:

But surer and purer

The soul of England lives.

He is master and lord of his brothers

Who is worthier and wiser than they.

Him only, him surely, shall others,

Else equal, observe and obey.

Truth, flawless and awless,

Do falsehood what it can,

Makes royal the loyal

And simple heart of man.

Who are these, then, that England should hearken,

Who rage and wax wroth and grow pale

If she turn from the sunsets that darken

And her ship for the morning set sail?

Let strangers fear dangers:

All know, that hold her dear,

Dishonour upon her

Can only fall through fear.

Men, born of the landsmen and seamen

Who served her with souls and with swords,

She bids you be brothers, and free men,

And lordless, and fearless of lords.

She cares not, she dares not

Care now for gold or steel:

Light lead her, truth speed her,

God save the Commonweal!