POETRY.
OLD ENGLAND.
OUR armies march, and scour the plain; Oar navies guard our shores ;
Our cities strain with might and main To fill the world with stores; Brave workers toil, both night and day, With matchless strength and skill :- Where are the "signs of slow decay" England is England still.
Through many a shire by tow'r and spire Each village makes its nest,—
Hard sons of toil with hearts of fire— Our bravest and our best.
They tend the kine, they fold the sheep, The fields they sow or till, Their "noiseless tenor" yet they keep— England is England still.
Oh, friends far off—far, far away From this our Island Home, What shall we pray, what can we say To you across the foam ?
Whate'er betide may fear or pride Ne'er touch our right goodwill ; May you and we long live to see England old England still.
Though factions fight with all their might, And mar each wise endeavour, The cause of Freedom and of Right Still rolls along for ever.
This happy land secure shall stand, Based on her People's will.
Though wide the range, through every change, England is England still.
0 rolling down, more lovely made By every passing cloud, 0 purple heath, 0 dappled glade, 0 wood by breezes bow'd, 0 land and sea, 0 lake and lea, 0 meadow-stream and bill, 0 rock-bound coast 1—where'er we be, England is England still.
Dear Mother Isle, how fair the smile That lightens up thy face !
E'en those who part from thee a while Long for thy warm embrace.
Through hours of joy, through hours of pain, My heart with thee I fill ; Through shine or rain, thou wilt remain England my England still.
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