THE SWORD OF ENGLAND

Not as one muttering in a spell-bound sleep

Shall England speak the word;

Not idly bid the embattled lightnings leap,

Nor lightly draw the sword!

Let statesmen grope by night in a blind dream,

The cold clear morning star

Should like a trophy in her helmet gleam

When England sweeps to war!

Not like a derelict, drunk with surf and spray,

And drifting down to doom;

But like the Sun-god calling up the day

Should England rend that gloom.

Not as in trance, at some hypnotic call,

Nor with a doubtful cry;

But a clear faith, like a banner above us all,

Rolling from sky to sky.

She sheds no blood to that vain god of strife

Whom striplings call “renown”;

She knows that only they who reverence life

Can nobly lay it down;

And these will ride from child and home and love,

Through death and hell that day;

But O, her faith, her flag, must burn above,

Her soul must lead the way!