  In English nature, did Saint George prevail Over the Dragon? Maybe in the time When England knew not poverty, nor crime, Described by Cobbett, who would not go bail For falsehood, nor let truth remain in jail. It must, then, have renewed life from its slime, For, oh! through deeds, that turn the blood to chyme And eyes white inward, see him ride the gale. In English nature—oh, where now the saint— The spirit, to sublime conceptions, true? Has good Saint George, too woundful to renew His conflict with the dragon of base taint, Been caught up by Elias from earth's view? How, else, the dragon's rage in irrestraint? IIThe dragon is grim greed. The Saint's long spear, That once transfixed it, can no longer touch. No land is safe from its sting, blood-drain, or clutch— For it takes Protean shapes; 'tis, therefore, clear, Since good Saint George has failed to re-appear To mortal sight, save in the King's escutch— Worn off at edge and blurred with Tudor smudge— Freedom must drive the Dragon off this sphere. The Dragon's soarings cause the sun's eclypse.— Hark! is that thunder, God's collapsing skys? No; 'tis the Eagle, with un-hooded eyes And lightening flash from beak to pinion tips, Seizing the Dragon that, despite its slips From form to form—craft, gold and false sunrise— Can not elude his eye and talon grips. IIIA conflict, this, refracted, cloud to cloud! Where a white summit? Under crimson seas, And these still hightening. Through far azure, Peace Listens and, eager, peeps; then, turns headbowed. The conflict circling earth, all plains are ploughed New rows of gulches. God! can aught appease The Dragon with fiend thirst's eternities For tongue! The sun might, if it were well sloughed. The Dragon, mounting, draws aloft earth's slime With which to dim the all-producing Sun From broadening light and warmth for every one; But, look! The Eagle, with the thirst sublime Of Justice, that the right on earth be done— Flashes and—hark! 'Tis earth's Te-Deum chime! IVOh, yea, the Earth's Te Deums, visibling As well as voicing forth the joy of Nations, Fill up the vastest Heaven—that of God's Patience With Human Will most grossly reptiling In insincerities, worse than negations; And for what blessing are the earth's laudations? The grace to soul to scorn to be mere thing. Oh, of this grace was born the Eagle's vim To dash the Dragon down in hell so deep, It is a maggot there, which can but creep; And draw Elias' chariot to Earth's rim, Wherein Saint George stands with his heart a-leap— As, now, in labor, we catch glimpse of him. |
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