ENGLAND MY MOTHER

England my mother, Wardress of waters. Builder of peoples, Maker of men,—

Hast thou yet leisure Left for the muses? Heed'st thou the songsmith Forging the rhyme?

Deafened with tumults, How canst thou hearken? Strident is faction, Demos is loud.

Lazarus, hungry, Menaces Dives; Labour the giant Chafes in his hold.

Yet do the songsmiths Quit not their forges; Still on life's anvil Forge they the rhyme.

Still the rapt faces Glow from the furnace: Breath of the smithy Scorches their brows.

Yea, and thou hear'st them? So shall the hammers Fashion not vainly Verses of gold.