Safe-guarded dwellers in your sea-girt eyrie
How fares the fight?
Terror has crept beneath your ocean wall,
Horror is over-reaching, to appal;
Your sons are menaced by a furnace fiery:
What of the night?
A hundred years have passed at ease
Since last you fought on bended knees;
And joints, unused, grow stiff and old,
And hearts unroused are faint and cold;
Whilst they who own but wealth, their creed,
Stand helpless in the hour of need.
Oh peace-bound nation!
Lapped in rich sloth; untroubled generation!
Know you that races change?
Some dwindle slowly downward in decay,
Unconscious, till the dawning of the day:
At touch of fire we learn how they are faring;
Thrice welcome is the test to nations daring;
To some—how strange!
Our ancient enemy—now brother—
From one Napoleon to another
Has seen his country ebb and flow
And now he holds the sternest foe,
Learning the lesson of strenuous fight
To brace defensive armour tight:
But what of you—old Islanders
So roughly woke?
Has gilded sloth 'mid dreamless calm
Stifled your soul, close wrapped from harm,
In Neptune's cloak?
Or is it but an idle dress,
Thrown off at breath of fearful stress?
Or has it slowly strangled that old oak?
None may foretell;
But this we know:
As fire testeth iron through and through,
So shall it be with you!
Not yet have you passed furnace-wise,
But soon, with newly opened eyes,
Upon your knees,
You shall discern Heaven's judgment on an age-long ease.
Poets and prophets darkly sang;
Unheeded then the tocsin rang;
But now the sky is grey and dim,
Your enemy is stern and grim,
Your leaders slow;
And, though you realise it not ...
You may lie low:
For, though to fight one son is bold,
Another hides, amassing gold;
The strain falls not in equal measure:
Whilst some lie cold—
Others distil their blood for treasure,
And that—Old England—if unchecked,
Shall see your ancient Empire wrecked.
You battle not to vanquish a great nation,
Nor for safety, nor the sceptre of the seas,
Nor for the Empire of a world at ease,
Nor fame's fair scroll:
For your salvation,
You wrestle with Apollyon for your soul.
And if you fail—
Your epitaph: 'too late'—
The Angel with the Pen shall grave your fate:
Your glorious history of no avail;
Whilst all the Earth shall know you were not great.
Not arms, nor weapons forged, nor serried forces,
Nor stout Allies nor multiplied resources
The victory giveth;
Not ships afar, nor numbers gradual tale,
Nor all your might, oh Britain! shall avail:
Only the Spirit liveth!
Yet this our hope (a hope unsaid),
And still our faith (though faith be dead),
That, as of old, you may awake,
Cast off your senile mood, and shake
Irresolution to the wall;
Bid equal sacrifice from all;
That each surrender to the state
A measured offering to fate,
Till Unity of Will, controlled
Shines through the nation, manifold:
Then should your Spirit conquer as before,
And Phœnix-like you should renew your youth and strength once more.