ENGLAND BEFORE THE STORM

The day that is the night of days,

With cannon-fire for sun ablaze

We spy from any billow's lift;

And England still this tidal drift!

Would she to sainted forethought vow

A space before the thunders flood,

That martyr of its hour might now

Spare her the tears of blood.

Asleep upon her ancient deeds,

She hugs the vision plethora breeds,

And counts her manifold increase

Of treasure in the fruits of peace.

What curse on earth's improvident,

When the dread trumpet shatters rest,

Is wreaked, she knows, yet smiles content

As cradle rocked from breast.

She, impious to the Lord of Hosts,

The valour of her offspring boasts,

Mindless that now on land and main

His heeded prayer is active brain.

No more great heart may guard the home,

Save eyed and armed and skilled to cleave

Yon swallower wave with shroud of foam,

We see not distant heave.

They stand to be her sacrifice,

The sons this mother flings like dice,

To face the odds and brave the Fates;

As in those days of starry dates,

When cannon cannon's counterblast

Awakened, muzzle muzzle bowled,

And high in swathe of smoke the mast

Its fighting rag outrolled.