  Under which banner? It was night Beyond all nights that ever were. The Cross was broken. Blood-stained Might Moved like a tiger from its lair, And all that heaven had died to quell Awoke, and mingled earth with hell. For Europe, if it held a creed, Held it thro’ custom, not thro’ faith. Chaos returned in dream and deed, Right was a legend—Love, a wraith; And That from which the world began Was less than even the best in man. God in the image of a snake Dethroned that dream, too fond, too blind, The man-shaped God whose heart could break, Live, die and triumph with mankind; A Super-snake, a Juggernaut, Dethroned the Highest of human thought. Choose, England! For the eternal foe Within thee, as without, grew strong, By many a super-subtle blow Blurring the lines of right and wrong In Art and Thought, till nought seemed true But that soul-slaughtering cry of New! New wreckage of the shrines we made Thro’ centuries of forgotten tears.... We knew not where their hands had laid Our Master. Twice a thousand years Had dulled the uncapricious sun. Manifold worlds obscured the One; Obscured the reign of Law, our stay, Our compass thro’ the uncharted sea, The one sure light, the one sure way, The one firm base of Liberty; The one firm road that men have trod Thro’ Chaos to the Throne of God. Choose ye! A hundred legions cried Dishonour, or the instant sword! Ye chose. Ye met that blood-stained tide, A little kingdom kept its word; And, dying, cried across the night, Hear us, O earth, we chose the Right. Whose is the victory? Though ye stood Alone against the unmeasured foe, By all the tears, by all the blood, That flowed, and have not ceased to flow, By all the legions that ye hurled Back thro’ the thunder-shaken world; By the old that have not where to rest, By lands laid waste and hearths defiled, By every lacerated breast, And every mutilated child, Whose is the victory? Answer, ye Who, dying, smiled at tyranny:— Under the sky’s triumphal arch The glories of the dawn begin. E’en now, in silence, thro’ Berlin— Dumb shadows, tattered blood-stained ghosts, But cast by what swift following hosts! And answer, England! At thy side, Thro’ seas of blood, thro’ mists of tears, Thou that for Liberty hast died And livest, to the end of years. And answer, earth! Far off, I hear The pÆans of a happier sphere:— The trumpet blown at Marathon Exulted over earth and sea; But burning angel lips have blown The trumpets of thy Liberty, For who, beside thy dead, could deem The faith, for which they died, a dream? Earth has not been the same, since then. Europe from thee received a soul, Whence nations moved in law, like men, As members of a mightier whole, Till wars were ended.... In that day, So shall our children’s children say. |
|
