POETRY.

FOR, ENGLAND.

Enter Youth (singing).

WHETHER homeside turf or tropic forest cover them,

Or under shade of ruinous walls they lie Forgotten, where they laid them down to die, Or the unremembering waves trample over them, For her they lived, and they cannot die.

Old Man.. What are you singing, lad F-

A doleful tune of a race grown bad ?

Youth. A verse I made in praise of her

Whose son I am.

Old Man. Of her ? What "her "P

The mercbantwoman of the seas ?

Youth. Nay, England, Daughter of the seas, Of whom our wise, our brave, our best Were scarce more than unworthiest; England, whose name is meat and drink— Old Man. So! and the only meat and drink Your thousands have. This foolish pride, This song you sing of those who died Abroad because they could not live Famished at home—why, I'd not give A breath of mine for praise of her.

Youth. 0, is it age forbids to stir

Your pulse in least faint love, though she So far past all our praises be ?

Old Man. Age knows, age knows, while youth but dreams;

Age tests, while youth belauds what seems.

England! She is the world's disease, And when she falters and her knees Grow faint and fail her, she shall bear The weight of nations worthier : A harlot known, despoiled, and cast In the shamed limbo of the past.

Youth. Hath Caliban grown old, with speech

More free than ev'n Hell's Fillies teach P

Old Man. And thou, dost think thy race shall stand As Prospers' with wizard wand, And tame the future ? Never again Shall the proud fools their insult rain, Like God, on humbler nations—those Too poor for friends, too mean for foes. Youth. Nay, but, Old Man, if England fall,

Shall all our love with England full? Though God ordain her minished state Should yet past errors expiate; Though no more on Time's banner she Write her large hopes; she yet shall be A fame perpetual and a sign Of greatness—past, but all divine! Her heroes' immortality shed A ghostly grace on her, though dead.

Old Man. No, and not this, not this ! Shall they,

Your flawed great ones, endure the day Of other nations' gloriousness?

Youth. How should not even her foes confess

A light transfiguring all the story Of England's fame with the pure glory Of Nelson's and of Shakespeare's fame, Glory that clings to Ralegh's name, Glory that speaks the praise of Drake, Hudson and Grenville and Pitt and Blake.

Old Man. These be your gods, 0 England, these, Whom not the waters of all the seas Could cleanse from taint of self or lust; To these your glory's given in trust ?— Pirates, rakes, braggarts—ev'n the best, Your Nelson, lackey— Youth. Hold ! 0 lest

Quick lightning rive and sear the brain That would a rainbow's fairness stain. 0 dear beyond your thought do these Live in our people's memories; Dearer than honour is the crown Immortal of their great renown !

Old Man. The people! Nay, what heed is theirs Of aught beyond the day's despairs ? Roam far the best, nor would return Though England sore and helpless yearn T'wards them.

Youth. Too craven were such sleep

When her need called across the deep.

Old Man. Ah, Youth, as hopeful now as ever ! Shall what has once been alter never? Feel'st not the slow and painful stir Of Demos thawed the mightier

For his long nightmare-ridden slumber ? And when the ancient bands that cumber His untaught strength are all put by, Shall he so gladly run to die For this so hard a foster?

Youth. Yea!

There's in our people yet to-day The same prompt blood that leapt to the cheek When Nelson bade her anger speak ; The love intent, the generous hate, Are theirs, aforetime that cowed Fate.

Of England's womb they sprang, and are Steadfastly true as star to star.

Old Man. Hope on, 0 Youth, if Hope may be invincible as Hate for thee.

Youth. Yea then, Old Man, and so farewell.

My words, like orphans of their Mother, tell My love more than her praise; but parting now With boastless mouth but morning-fronted brow, A worthier song of England would I sing If aught of glory to my lips might cling, Singing those who, the scabbard of her Sword, Held it inviolate and her adored;

Or songless, would live purely in the light Their love tbeds star-like from the shrouding Night Ali, though all lips be dumb yet shall her fame Shine in her people's life secure from shame ; And round her memory their glad service be Flung as around her shores the joyful Sea!

JOHN FREEMAN.