ENGLAND MY MOTHER

By William Watson

England my mother,

Wardress of waters.

Builder of peoples,

Maker of men,—

Hast thou yet leisure

Left for the muses?

Heed'st thou the songsmith

Forging the rhyme?

Deafened with tumults,

How canst thou hearken?

Strident is faction,

Demos is loud.

Lazarus, hungry,

Menaces Dives;

Labour the giant

Chafes in his hold.

Yet do the songsmiths

Quit not their forges;

Still on life's anvil

Forge they the rhyme.

Still the rapt faces

Glow from the furnace:

Breath of the smithy

Scorches their brows.

Yea, and thou hear'st them?

So shall the hammers

Fashion not vainly

Verses of gold.