If deaf to Shelley's loudest sky-lark strain,

His rage at tyrants, and to Byron's thong,

Nerve-proof, how wake the English to the wrong

Done their true selves, no less than to the slain,

When willing weapons for Ambition's gain?

Aye, weapons only; for, to whom belong

The minds of England, and treed fields of song—

Nay, all but grave-ground, grudged by hill and plain?

O English People, whom the crafty class

Has huddled into graves from sight and sound

Of what God hands you, and, with pence, or pound,

Lids down your wild dead stare,—wake! why so crass?

See in the Celts spring-burst from underground,

The Human Resurrection come to pass.