English

He who would start and rise
Before the crowing cocks,—
No more he lifts his eyes,
Whoever knocks.

He who before the stars
Would call the cattle home,—
They wait about the bars
For him to come.

Him at whose hearty calls
The farmstead woke again
The horses in their stalls
Expect in vain.

Busy and blithe and bold
He laboured for the morrow,—
The plough his hands would hold
Rusts in the furrow.

His fields he had to leave,
His orchards cool and dim;

Heroic counsel shook our hearts to-day,
Where new-mown grass perfumed your hedge-row-dell;
Blue lights across your mangold-wurzel fell,
And Ely shone, a phantom far away.

We spoke of coming claims for social sway,
Of rising horde and shattered citadel,
And one thought all things surely must be well,
And one had little faith, and murmured “Nay!”

Then, in the primrose sunset of July,
Homeward along the Hinton fields we came,
And each to other questioning made reply

That man and God and nation were the same

Lover of England, stand awhile and gaze
With thankful heart, and lips refrained from praise;
They rest beyond the speech of human pride
Who served with Nelson and with Nelson died.

Well-shadowed landskip, fare-ye-well:
How I have loved you, none can tell,
At least so well
As he that now hates more
Then e'er he loved before.

But my dear nothings, take your leave;
No longer must you me deceive,
Since I perceive
All the deceit, and know
Whence the mistake did grow.

As he whose quicker eye doth trace
A false star shot to a marked place
Does run apace,
And thinking it to catch
A jelly up does snatch,

So our dull souls, tasting delight
Far off, by sense, and appetite,

I praise Thee not, with impious pride,
For that Thy partial hand has given
Bounties of wealth or form or brain,
Good gifts to other men denied.

Nor weary Thee with blind request,
For fancied goods Thy hand withholds;
I know not what to fear or hope,
Nor aught but that Thy will is best.

O thou that sleep'st like pig in straw,
—Thou lady dear, arise!
Open, to keep the sun in awe,
—Thy pretty pinking eyes:
And, having stretched each leg and arm,
—Put on your clean white smock,
And then, I pray, to keep you warm,
—A petticoat on dock.

Arise, arise! Why should you sleep
—When you have slept enough?
Long since, French boys cried ‘Chimney-sweep,’
—And damsels ‘Kitchen-stuff.’
The shops were opened long before,
—And youngest prentice goes
To lay at 's mistress' chamber-door

Poet , whose grave and strenuous lyre is still
For Truth and Duty strung; whose art eschews
The lighter graces of the softer Muse,
Disdainful of mere craftsman's glittering skill:
Yours is a soul from visionary hill
Watching and harkening for ethereal news,
Looking beyond life's storms and death's cold dews
To habitations of the eternal will.

Not mine your mystic creed; not mine, in prayer
And worship, at the ensanguined Cross to kneel!
But when I mark your faith how pure and fair,
How based on love, on passion for man's weal,

The morn broke bright: the thronging people wore
Their best; but in the general face I saw
No touch of veneration or of awe.
Christ's natal day? 'Twas merely one day more
On which the mart agreed to close its door;
A lounging-time by usage and by law
Sanctioned; nor recked they, beyond this, one straw
Of any meaning which for man it bore!

Fated among Time's fallen leaves to stray,
We breathe an air that savours of the tomb,
Heavy with dissolution and decay;
Waiting till some new world-emotion rise,

Their arms shall conquer—to victory led
By a voice like a trumpet's peal;
For a great Ghost marches at their head—
The Soul of Rouget de Lisle.

He gave them the Song that cannot die
Till the world's heart cease to feel;
And they go into battle captain'd by
The soul of Rouget de Lisle.

Not for the first time—not for the last—
Does an enemy waver and reel
Before the eternal clarion blast
From the Soul of Rouget de Lisle.

For this is the Song shall break the power
That bids men grovel and kneel—

In dreams the exile cometh home;
In dreams the lost is found;
In dreams the fettered slave may roam
The world around.

In dreams thou may'st a monarch be,
And sit upon a throne.
Give thanks, that this befalleth thee
In dreams alone.