LITMIR.BIZ

      I turn with grave thought

      To this child of the ages,

      And to all that is writ

      In Time’s hidden pages.

      Shall young Howards or Guelphs,

      In the days that shall come,

      Wander forth, seeking bread,

      Far from England and home?

      Shall they sail to new continents,

      English no more,

      Or turn – strange reverse —

      To the old classic shore?

      Shall fair locks and blue eyes,

      And the rose on the cheek,

      Find a language of pity

      The tongue cannot speak —

      “Not English, but angels?”

      Shall this tale be told

      Of Romans to be

      As of Romans of old?

      Shall they too have monkeys

      And music?  Will any

      Try their luck with an engine

      Or toy spinning-jenny?

      Shall we too be led

      By that mirage of Art

      Which saps the true strength

      Of the national heart?

      The sensuous glamour,

      The dreamland of grace,

      Which rot the strong manhood

      They fail to replace;

      Which at once are the glory,

      The ruin, the shame,

      Of the beautiful lands

      And ripe souls whence they came?

      Oh, my England! oh, Mother

      Of Freemen! oh, sweet,

      Sad toiler majestic,

      With labour-worn feet!

      Brave worker, girt round,

      Inexpugnable, free,

      With tumultuous sound

      And salt spume of the sea,

      Fenced off from the clamour

      Of alien mankind

      By the surf on the rock,

      And the shriek of the wind,

      Tho’ the hot Gaul shall envy,

      The cold German flout thee,

      Thy far children scorn thee,

      Still thou shalt be great,

      Still march on uncaring,

      Thy perils unsharing,

      Alone, and yet daring

      Thy infinite fate.

      Yet ever remembering

      The precepts of gold

      That were written in part

      For the great ones of old —

      “Let other hands fashion

      The marvels of art;

      To thee fate has given

      A loftier part,

      To rule the wide peoples,

      To bind them to thee.”

      By the sole bond of loving,

      That bindeth the free,

      To hold thy own place,

      Neither lawless nor slave;

      Not driven by the despot,

      Nor trick’d by the knave.

      But these thoughts are too solemn.

      So play, my child, play,

      Never heeding the connoisseur

      Over the way,

      The last dances of course;

      Then with scant pause between,

      “Home, sweet Home,” the “Old Hundredth,”

      And “God Save the Queen.”

      See the poor children swarm

      From dark court and dull street,

      As the gay music quickens

      The lightsome young feet.

      See them now whirl away,

      Now insidiously come,

      With a coy grace which conquers

      The squalor of home.

      See the pallid cheeks flushing

      With innocent pleasure

      At the hurry and haste

      Of the quick-footed measure.

      See the dull eyes now bright,

      And now happily dim,

      For some soft-dying cadence

      Of love-song or hymn.

      Dear souls, little joy

      Of their young lives have they,

      So thro’ hymn-tune and song-tune

      Play on, my child, play.

      For though dull pedants chatter

      Of musical taste,

      Talk of hindered researches

      And hours run to waste;

      Though they tell us of thoughts

      To ennoble mankind,

      Which your poor measures chase

      From the labouring mind;

      While your music rejoices

      One joyless young heart,

      Perish bookworms and books,

      Perish learning and art —

      Of my vagabond fancies

      I’ll even take my fill.

      “Qualche cosa, signor?”

      Yes, my child, that I will.