HEMANS

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J. E. C. Welldon

LIII
THE BENDED BOW

There was heard the sound of a coming foe,
 There was sent through Britain a bended bow;
 And a voice was pour’d on the free winds far,
 As the land rose up at the sign of war.
‘Heard you not the battle horn?—
 Reaper! leave thy golden corn!
 Leave it for the birds of heaven,
 Swords must flash, and spears be riven!
 Leave it for the winds to shed—
 Arm! ere Britain’s turf grow red!’
And the reaper arm’d, like a freeman’s son;
 And the bended bow and the voice passed on.
‘Hunter! leave the mountain-chase!
 Take the falchion from its place!
 Let the wolf go free to-day,
 Leave him for a nobler prey!
 Let the deer ungall’d sweep by,—
 Arm thee! Britain’s foes are nigh!’
And the hunter arm’d ere the chase was done;
 And the bended bow and the voice passed on.
‘Chieftain! quit the joyous feast!
 Stay not till the song hath ceased:
 Though the mead be foaming bright,
 Though the fires give ruddy light,
 Leave the hearth, and leave the hall—
 Arm thee! Britain’s foes must fall.’
And the chieftain arm’d, and the horn was blown;
 And the bended bow and the voice passed on.
‘Prince! thy father’s deeds are told,
 In the bower, and in the hold!
 Where the goatherd’s lay is sung,
 Where the minstrel’s harp is strung,
 Foes are on thy native sea—
 Give our bards a tale of thee!’
And the prince came arm’d, like a leader’s son;
 And the bended bow and the voice passed on.
‘Mother! stay not thou thy boy!
 He must learn the battle’s joy,
 Sister bring the sword and spear,
 Give thy brother words of cheer!
 Maiden! bid thy lover part,
 Britain calls the strong in heart!’
And the bended bow and the voice passed on;
 And the bards made song for a battle won.
Felicia Hemans.

LIV
ENGLAND’S DEAD

Son of the Ocean Isle!
 Where sleep your mighty dead?
 Show me what high and stately pile
 Is reared o’er Glory’s bed.
Go, stranger! track the deep—
 Free, free the white sail spread!
 Wave may not foam, not wild wind sweep,
 Where rest not England’s dead.
On Egypt’s burning plains,
 By the pyramid o’erswayed,
 With fearful power the noonday reigns,
 And the palm trees yield no shade;
But let the angry sun
 From heaven look fiercely red,
 Unfelt by those whose task is done!—
 There slumber England’s dead.
The hurricane hath might
 Along the Indian shore,
 And far by Ganges’ banks at night
 Is heard the tiger’s roar;—
But let the sound roll on!
 It hath no tone of dread
 For those that from their toils are gone,—
 There slumber England’s dead.
Loud rush the torrent floods
 The western wilds among,
 And free in green Columbia’s woods
 The hunter’s bow is strung;—
But let the floods rush on!
 Let the arrow’s flight be sped!
 Why should they reck whose task is done?—
 There slumber England’s dead.
The mountain-storms rise high
 In the snowy Pyrenees,
 And toss the pine-boughs through the sky
 Like rose-leaves on the breeze;—
But let the storm rage on!
 Let the fresh wreaths be shed!
 For the Roncesvalles’ field is won,—
 There slumber England’s dead.
On the frozen deep’s repose
 ’Tis a dark and dreadful hour,
 When round the ship the ice-fields close,
 And the northern night-clouds lour;—
But let the ice drift on!
 Let the cold-blue desert spread!
 Their course with mast and flag is done,—
 Even there sleep England’s dead.
The war-like of the isles,
 The men of field and wave!
 Are not the rocks their funeral piles,
 The seas and shores their grave?
Go, stranger! track the deep—
 Free, free the white sail spread!
 Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
 Where rest not England’s dead.
Felicia Hemans.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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