Viii

All is not well with England. Her great heart Beats faultily and to no music set. She hath her moods, suspicions, and doth fret The daylong hour, by night doth toss and start. Oft she stands dreaming in the crowded mart. ’Tis true that this distemper doth not yet The deeper functions of her life beset, And mightily she plays her mighty part. Yet sometimes in this tempest the heart fears Whether, so faulted, the old anchor grips. And shall we find, we ask, when the sky clears, England still mightier than England’s slips? Let our own past proclaim it. Let the years Advance and set their trumpets to their lips.

RASTATT, 9th May