IV

So let the songsmith Proffer his rhyme-gift, England my mother, Maker of men.

Gray grows thy count'nance, Full of the ages; Time on thy forehead Sits like a dream:

Song is the potion All things renewing, Youth's one elixir, Fountain of morn.

Thou, at the world-loom Weaving thy future, Fitly may'st temper Toil with delight.

Deemest thou, labour Only is earnest? Grave is all beauty, Solemn is joy.

Song is no bauble — Slight not the songsmith, England my mother, Maker of men.