  O England! in thine hour of need, When Faith's reward and Valour's meed Is death or glory, When Faith indites with biting brand, Clasped in each warrior's stiffening hand, A nation's story; Though weak our hands, which fain would clasp The warrior's sword with warrior's grasp On victory's field; Yet turn, O mighty Mother! turn Unto the million hearts that burn To be thy shield. Thine equal justice, mercy, grace, Have made a distant alien race A part of thee. 'Twas thine to bid their souls rejoice When first they heard the living voice Of Liberty. Unmindful of their ancient name, And lost to honour—glory—fame, And sunk in strife, Thou foundst them, whom thy touch hath made Men, and to whom thy breath conveyed They, whom thy love hath guarded long; They, whom thy care hath rendered strong In love and faith, Whose heartstrings round thy heart entwine. They are, they ever will be, thine In life—in death. Nizamat Jung (Native Judge of the High Court of Hyderabad) |
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