  (Written during a European war crisis) Not as one muttering in a spell-bound sleep Shall England speak the word; Not idly bid the embattled lightnings leap, Nor lightly draw the sword! Let statesmen grope by night in a blind dream, The cold clear morning star Should like a trophy in her helmet gleam When England sweeps to war! Not like a derelict, drunk with surf and spray, And drifting down to doom; But like the Sun-god calling up the day Should England rend that gloom. Not as in trance, at some hypnotic call, Nor with a doubtful cry; But a clear faith, like a banner above us all, Rolling from sky to sky. She sheds no blood to that vain god of strife Whom striplings call "renown"; She knows that only they who reverence life Can nobly lay it down; And these will ride from child and home and love, Through death and hell that day; But O, her faith, her flag, must burn above, Her soul must lead the way! |
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