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.