TENNYSON
You ask me, why, tho’ ill at ease,Within this region I subsist,Whose spirits falter in the mist,And languish for the purple seas.It is the land that freemen till,That sober-suited Freedom chose,The land, where girt with friends or foesA man may speak the thing he will;A land of settled government,A land of just and old renown,Where Freedom slowly broadens downFrom precedent to precedent:Where faction seldom gathers head,But by degrees to fulness wrought,The strength of some diffusive thoughtHath time and space to work and spread.Should banded unions persecuteOpinion, and induce a timeWhen single thought is civil crime,And individual freedom mute;Tho’ Power should make from land to landThe name of Britain trebly great—Tho’ every channel of the StateShould fill and choke with golden sand—Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth,Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky,And I will see before I dieThe palms and temples of the South.Tennyson.
You ask me, why, tho’ ill at ease,Within this region I subsist,Whose spirits falter in the mist,And languish for the purple seas.It is the land that freemen till,That sober-suited Freedom chose,The land, where girt with friends or foesA man may speak the thing he will;A land of settled government,A land of just and old renown,Where Freedom slowly broadens downFrom precedent to precedent:Where faction seldom gathers head,But by degrees to fulness wrought,The strength of some diffusive thoughtHath time and space to work and spread.Should banded unions persecuteOpinion, and induce a timeWhen single thought is civil crime,And individual freedom mute;Tho’ Power should make from land to landThe name of Britain trebly great—Tho’ every channel of the StateShould fill and choke with golden sand—Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth,Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky,And I will see before I dieThe palms and temples of the South.Tennyson.
You ask me, why, tho’ ill at ease,Within this region I subsist,Whose spirits falter in the mist,And languish for the purple seas.
It is the land that freemen till,That sober-suited Freedom chose,The land, where girt with friends or foesA man may speak the thing he will;
A land of settled government,A land of just and old renown,Where Freedom slowly broadens downFrom precedent to precedent:
Where faction seldom gathers head,But by degrees to fulness wrought,The strength of some diffusive thoughtHath time and space to work and spread.
Should banded unions persecuteOpinion, and induce a timeWhen single thought is civil crime,And individual freedom mute;
Tho’ Power should make from land to landThe name of Britain trebly great—Tho’ every channel of the StateShould fill and choke with golden sand—
Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth,Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky,And I will see before I dieThe palms and temples of the South.
Tennyson.
Of old sat Freedom on the heights,The thunders breaking at her feet:Above her shook the starry lights:She heard the torrents meet.There in her place she did rejoice,Self-gather’d in her prophet mind,But fragments of her mighty voiceCame rolling on the wind.Then stept she down thro’ town and fieldTo mingle with the human race,And part by part to men reveal’dThe fullness of her face—Grave mother of majestic works,From her isle-altar gazing down,Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,And, King-like, wears the crown:Her open eyes desire the truth.The wisdom of a thousand yearsIs in them. May perpetual youthKeep dry their light from tears;That her fair form may stand and shine,Make bright our days and light our dreams,Turning to scorn with lips divineThe falsehood of extremes!Tennyson.
Of old sat Freedom on the heights,The thunders breaking at her feet:Above her shook the starry lights:She heard the torrents meet.There in her place she did rejoice,Self-gather’d in her prophet mind,But fragments of her mighty voiceCame rolling on the wind.Then stept she down thro’ town and fieldTo mingle with the human race,And part by part to men reveal’dThe fullness of her face—Grave mother of majestic works,From her isle-altar gazing down,Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,And, King-like, wears the crown:Her open eyes desire the truth.The wisdom of a thousand yearsIs in them. May perpetual youthKeep dry their light from tears;That her fair form may stand and shine,Make bright our days and light our dreams,Turning to scorn with lips divineThe falsehood of extremes!Tennyson.
Of old sat Freedom on the heights,The thunders breaking at her feet:Above her shook the starry lights:She heard the torrents meet.
There in her place she did rejoice,Self-gather’d in her prophet mind,But fragments of her mighty voiceCame rolling on the wind.
Then stept she down thro’ town and fieldTo mingle with the human race,And part by part to men reveal’dThe fullness of her face—
Grave mother of majestic works,From her isle-altar gazing down,Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,And, King-like, wears the crown:
Her open eyes desire the truth.The wisdom of a thousand yearsIs in them. May perpetual youthKeep dry their light from tears;
That her fair form may stand and shine,Make bright our days and light our dreams,Turning to scorn with lips divineThe falsehood of extremes!
Tennyson.
Thy voice is heard thro’ rolling drums,That beat to battle where he stands;Thy face across his fancy comes,And gives the battle to his hands:A moment, while the trumpets blow,He sees his brood about thy knee;The next, like fire he meets the foe,And strikes him dead for thine and thee.Tennyson.
Thy voice is heard thro’ rolling drums,That beat to battle where he stands;Thy face across his fancy comes,And gives the battle to his hands:A moment, while the trumpets blow,He sees his brood about thy knee;The next, like fire he meets the foe,And strikes him dead for thine and thee.Tennyson.
Thy voice is heard thro’ rolling drums,That beat to battle where he stands;Thy face across his fancy comes,And gives the battle to his hands:A moment, while the trumpets blow,He sees his brood about thy knee;The next, like fire he meets the foe,And strikes him dead for thine and thee.
Tennyson.
Her court was pure; her life serene;God gave her peace; her land reposed;A thousand claims to reverence closedIn her as Mother, Wife, and Queen;And statesmen at her council metWho knew the seasons when to takeOccasion by the hand, and makeThe bounds of freedom wider yetBy shaping some august decree,Which kept her throne unshaken still,Broad-based upon her people’s will,And compass’d by the inviolate sea.Tennyson.
Her court was pure; her life serene;God gave her peace; her land reposed;A thousand claims to reverence closedIn her as Mother, Wife, and Queen;And statesmen at her council metWho knew the seasons when to takeOccasion by the hand, and makeThe bounds of freedom wider yetBy shaping some august decree,Which kept her throne unshaken still,Broad-based upon her people’s will,And compass’d by the inviolate sea.Tennyson.
Her court was pure; her life serene;God gave her peace; her land reposed;A thousand claims to reverence closedIn her as Mother, Wife, and Queen;
And statesmen at her council metWho knew the seasons when to takeOccasion by the hand, and makeThe bounds of freedom wider yet
By shaping some august decree,Which kept her throne unshaken still,Broad-based upon her people’s will,And compass’d by the inviolate sea.
Tennyson.
First pledge our Queen this solemn night,Then drink to England, every guest;That man’s the best CosmopoliteWho loves his native country best.May freedom’s oak for ever liveWith stronger life from day to day;That man’s the true ConservativeWho lops the mouldered branch away.Hands all round!God the traitor’s hope confound!To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends,And the great name of England, round and round.To all the loyal hearts who longTo keep our English Empire whole!To all our noble sons, the strongNew England of the Southern Pole!To England under Indian skies,To those dark millions of her realm!To Canada whom we love and prize,Whatever statesman hold the helm.Hands all round!God the traitor’s hope confound!To this great name of England drink, my friends,And all her glorious Empire round and round.To all our statesmen so they beTrue leaders of the land’s desire!To both our Houses, may they seeBeyond the borough and the shire!We sail’d wherever ship could sail,We founded many a mighty state;Pray God our greatness may not failThro’ craven fears of being great.Hands all round!God the traitor’s hope confound!To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends,And the great name of England, round and round.Tennyson.
First pledge our Queen this solemn night,Then drink to England, every guest;That man’s the best CosmopoliteWho loves his native country best.May freedom’s oak for ever liveWith stronger life from day to day;That man’s the true ConservativeWho lops the mouldered branch away.Hands all round!God the traitor’s hope confound!To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends,And the great name of England, round and round.To all the loyal hearts who longTo keep our English Empire whole!To all our noble sons, the strongNew England of the Southern Pole!To England under Indian skies,To those dark millions of her realm!To Canada whom we love and prize,Whatever statesman hold the helm.Hands all round!God the traitor’s hope confound!To this great name of England drink, my friends,And all her glorious Empire round and round.To all our statesmen so they beTrue leaders of the land’s desire!To both our Houses, may they seeBeyond the borough and the shire!We sail’d wherever ship could sail,We founded many a mighty state;Pray God our greatness may not failThro’ craven fears of being great.Hands all round!God the traitor’s hope confound!To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends,And the great name of England, round and round.Tennyson.
First pledge our Queen this solemn night,Then drink to England, every guest;That man’s the best CosmopoliteWho loves his native country best.May freedom’s oak for ever liveWith stronger life from day to day;That man’s the true ConservativeWho lops the mouldered branch away.Hands all round!God the traitor’s hope confound!To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends,And the great name of England, round and round.
To all the loyal hearts who longTo keep our English Empire whole!To all our noble sons, the strongNew England of the Southern Pole!To England under Indian skies,To those dark millions of her realm!To Canada whom we love and prize,Whatever statesman hold the helm.Hands all round!God the traitor’s hope confound!To this great name of England drink, my friends,And all her glorious Empire round and round.
To all our statesmen so they beTrue leaders of the land’s desire!To both our Houses, may they seeBeyond the borough and the shire!We sail’d wherever ship could sail,We founded many a mighty state;Pray God our greatness may not failThro’ craven fears of being great.Hands all round!God the traitor’s hope confound!To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends,And the great name of England, round and round.
Tennyson.
Britain fought her sons of yore—Britain fail’d; and never more,Careless of our growing kin,Shall we sin our fathers’ sin,Men that in a narrower day—Unprophetic rulers they—Drove from out the mother’s nestThat young eagle of the WestTo forage for herself alone;Britons, hold your own!Sharers of our glorious past,Brothers, must we part at last?Shall we not thro’ good and illCleave to one another still?Britain’s myriad voices call,‘Sons, be wedded each and all,Into one imperial whole,One with Britain, heart and soul!One life, one flag, one fleet, one Throne!Britons, hold your own!’Tennyson.
Britain fought her sons of yore—Britain fail’d; and never more,Careless of our growing kin,Shall we sin our fathers’ sin,Men that in a narrower day—Unprophetic rulers they—Drove from out the mother’s nestThat young eagle of the WestTo forage for herself alone;Britons, hold your own!Sharers of our glorious past,Brothers, must we part at last?Shall we not thro’ good and illCleave to one another still?Britain’s myriad voices call,‘Sons, be wedded each and all,Into one imperial whole,One with Britain, heart and soul!One life, one flag, one fleet, one Throne!Britons, hold your own!’Tennyson.
Britain fought her sons of yore—Britain fail’d; and never more,Careless of our growing kin,Shall we sin our fathers’ sin,Men that in a narrower day—Unprophetic rulers they—Drove from out the mother’s nestThat young eagle of the WestTo forage for herself alone;Britons, hold your own!
Sharers of our glorious past,Brothers, must we part at last?Shall we not thro’ good and illCleave to one another still?Britain’s myriad voices call,‘Sons, be wedded each and all,Into one imperial whole,One with Britain, heart and soul!One life, one flag, one fleet, one Throne!Britons, hold your own!’
Tennyson.
Who is he that cometh, like an honour’d guest,With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest,With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest?Mighty Seaman, this is heWas great by land as thou by sea.Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man,The greatest sailor since our world began.Now to the roll of muffled drums,To thee the greatest soldier comes;For this is heWas great by land as thou by sea;His foes were thine; he kept us free;O give him welcome, this is heWorthy of our gorgeous rites,And worthy to be laid by thee;For this is England’s greatest son,He that gained a hundred fights,Nor ever lost an English gun.Mighty Seaman, tender and true,And pure as he from taint of craven guile,O saviour of the silver-coasted isle,O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile,If aught of things that here befallTouch a spirit among things divine,If love of country move thee there at all,Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine!And thro’ the centuries let a people’s voiceIn full acclaim,A people’s voice,The proof and echo of all human fame,A people’s voice, when they rejoiceAt civic revel and pomp and game,Attest their great commander’s claimWith honour, honour, honour, honour to him,Eternal honour to his name.A people’s voice! we are a people yet.Tho’ all men else their nobler dreams forget,Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers;Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly setHis Briton in blown seas and storming showers,We have a voice, with which to pay the debtOf boundless love and reverence and regretTo those great men who fought, and kept it ours.And keep it ours, O God, from brute control;O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soulOf Europe, keep our noble England whole,And save the one true seed of freedom sown,Betwixt a people and their ancient throne,That sober freedom out of which there springsOur loyal passion for our temperate kings;For, saving that, ye help to save mankindTill public wrong be crumbled into dust,And drill the raw world for the march of mind,Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just.Not once or twice in our fair island-story,The path of duty was the way to glory:He that ever following her commands,On with toil of heart and knees and hands,Thro’ the long gorge to the far light has wonHis path upward, and prevail’d,Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaledAre close upon the shining table-landsTo which our God Himself is moon and sun.Hush! the Dead March wails in the people’s ears:The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears:The black earth yawns: the mortal disappears;Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;He is gone who seem’d so great.—Gone; but nothing can bereave himOf the force he made his ownBeing here, and we believe himSomething far advanced in State,And that he wears a truer crownThan any wreath that man can weave him.Speak no more of his renown,Lay your earthly fancies down,And in the vast cathedral leave him!God accept him, Christ receive him!Tennyson.
Who is he that cometh, like an honour’d guest,With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest,With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest?Mighty Seaman, this is heWas great by land as thou by sea.Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man,The greatest sailor since our world began.Now to the roll of muffled drums,To thee the greatest soldier comes;For this is heWas great by land as thou by sea;His foes were thine; he kept us free;O give him welcome, this is heWorthy of our gorgeous rites,And worthy to be laid by thee;For this is England’s greatest son,He that gained a hundred fights,Nor ever lost an English gun.Mighty Seaman, tender and true,And pure as he from taint of craven guile,O saviour of the silver-coasted isle,O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile,If aught of things that here befallTouch a spirit among things divine,If love of country move thee there at all,Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine!And thro’ the centuries let a people’s voiceIn full acclaim,A people’s voice,The proof and echo of all human fame,A people’s voice, when they rejoiceAt civic revel and pomp and game,Attest their great commander’s claimWith honour, honour, honour, honour to him,Eternal honour to his name.A people’s voice! we are a people yet.Tho’ all men else their nobler dreams forget,Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers;Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly setHis Briton in blown seas and storming showers,We have a voice, with which to pay the debtOf boundless love and reverence and regretTo those great men who fought, and kept it ours.And keep it ours, O God, from brute control;O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soulOf Europe, keep our noble England whole,And save the one true seed of freedom sown,Betwixt a people and their ancient throne,That sober freedom out of which there springsOur loyal passion for our temperate kings;For, saving that, ye help to save mankindTill public wrong be crumbled into dust,And drill the raw world for the march of mind,Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just.Not once or twice in our fair island-story,The path of duty was the way to glory:He that ever following her commands,On with toil of heart and knees and hands,Thro’ the long gorge to the far light has wonHis path upward, and prevail’d,Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaledAre close upon the shining table-landsTo which our God Himself is moon and sun.Hush! the Dead March wails in the people’s ears:The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears:The black earth yawns: the mortal disappears;Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;He is gone who seem’d so great.—Gone; but nothing can bereave himOf the force he made his ownBeing here, and we believe himSomething far advanced in State,And that he wears a truer crownThan any wreath that man can weave him.Speak no more of his renown,Lay your earthly fancies down,And in the vast cathedral leave him!God accept him, Christ receive him!Tennyson.
Who is he that cometh, like an honour’d guest,With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest,With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest?Mighty Seaman, this is heWas great by land as thou by sea.Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man,The greatest sailor since our world began.Now to the roll of muffled drums,To thee the greatest soldier comes;For this is heWas great by land as thou by sea;His foes were thine; he kept us free;O give him welcome, this is heWorthy of our gorgeous rites,And worthy to be laid by thee;For this is England’s greatest son,He that gained a hundred fights,Nor ever lost an English gun.
Mighty Seaman, tender and true,And pure as he from taint of craven guile,O saviour of the silver-coasted isle,O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile,If aught of things that here befallTouch a spirit among things divine,If love of country move thee there at all,Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine!And thro’ the centuries let a people’s voiceIn full acclaim,A people’s voice,The proof and echo of all human fame,A people’s voice, when they rejoiceAt civic revel and pomp and game,Attest their great commander’s claimWith honour, honour, honour, honour to him,Eternal honour to his name.
A people’s voice! we are a people yet.Tho’ all men else their nobler dreams forget,Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers;Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly setHis Briton in blown seas and storming showers,We have a voice, with which to pay the debtOf boundless love and reverence and regretTo those great men who fought, and kept it ours.And keep it ours, O God, from brute control;O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soulOf Europe, keep our noble England whole,And save the one true seed of freedom sown,Betwixt a people and their ancient throne,That sober freedom out of which there springsOur loyal passion for our temperate kings;For, saving that, ye help to save mankindTill public wrong be crumbled into dust,And drill the raw world for the march of mind,Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just.
Not once or twice in our fair island-story,The path of duty was the way to glory:He that ever following her commands,On with toil of heart and knees and hands,Thro’ the long gorge to the far light has wonHis path upward, and prevail’d,Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaledAre close upon the shining table-landsTo which our God Himself is moon and sun.
Hush! the Dead March wails in the people’s ears:The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears:The black earth yawns: the mortal disappears;Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;He is gone who seem’d so great.—Gone; but nothing can bereave himOf the force he made his ownBeing here, and we believe himSomething far advanced in State,And that he wears a truer crownThan any wreath that man can weave him.
Speak no more of his renown,Lay your earthly fancies down,And in the vast cathedral leave him!God accept him, Christ receive him!
Tennyson.
Half a league, half a league,Half a league onward,All in the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.‘Forward, the Light Brigade!Charge for the guns!’ he said:Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.‘Forward, the Light Brigade!’Was there a man dismay’d?Not tho’ the soldier knewSome one had blunder’d:Their’s not to make reply,Their’s not to reason why,Their’s but to do and die:Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon in front of themVolley’d and thunder’d;Storm’d at with shot and shell,Boldly they rode and well,Into the jaws of Death,Into the mouth of HellRode the six hundred.Flash’d all their sabres bare,Flash’d as they turn’d in airSabring the gunners there,Charging an army, whileAll the world wonder’d:Plunged in the battery-smokeRight thro’ the line they broke;Cossack and RussianReel’d from the sabre-strokeShatter’d and sunder’d.Then they rode back, but notNot the six hundred.Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon behind themVolley’d and thunder’d;Storm’d at with shot and shell,While horse and hero fell,They that had fought so wellCame thro’ the jaws of Death,Back from the mouth of Hell,All that was left of them,Left of six hundred.When can their glory fade?O the wild charge they made!All the world wonder’d.Honour the charge they made!Honour the Light Brigade,Noble six hundred!Tennyson.
Half a league, half a league,Half a league onward,All in the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.‘Forward, the Light Brigade!Charge for the guns!’ he said:Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.‘Forward, the Light Brigade!’Was there a man dismay’d?Not tho’ the soldier knewSome one had blunder’d:Their’s not to make reply,Their’s not to reason why,Their’s but to do and die:Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon in front of themVolley’d and thunder’d;Storm’d at with shot and shell,Boldly they rode and well,Into the jaws of Death,Into the mouth of HellRode the six hundred.Flash’d all their sabres bare,Flash’d as they turn’d in airSabring the gunners there,Charging an army, whileAll the world wonder’d:Plunged in the battery-smokeRight thro’ the line they broke;Cossack and RussianReel’d from the sabre-strokeShatter’d and sunder’d.Then they rode back, but notNot the six hundred.Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon behind themVolley’d and thunder’d;Storm’d at with shot and shell,While horse and hero fell,They that had fought so wellCame thro’ the jaws of Death,Back from the mouth of Hell,All that was left of them,Left of six hundred.When can their glory fade?O the wild charge they made!All the world wonder’d.Honour the charge they made!Honour the Light Brigade,Noble six hundred!Tennyson.
Half a league, half a league,Half a league onward,All in the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.‘Forward, the Light Brigade!Charge for the guns!’ he said:Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.
‘Forward, the Light Brigade!’Was there a man dismay’d?Not tho’ the soldier knewSome one had blunder’d:Their’s not to make reply,Their’s not to reason why,Their’s but to do and die:Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon in front of themVolley’d and thunder’d;Storm’d at with shot and shell,Boldly they rode and well,Into the jaws of Death,Into the mouth of HellRode the six hundred.
Flash’d all their sabres bare,Flash’d as they turn’d in airSabring the gunners there,Charging an army, whileAll the world wonder’d:Plunged in the battery-smokeRight thro’ the line they broke;Cossack and RussianReel’d from the sabre-strokeShatter’d and sunder’d.Then they rode back, but notNot the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,Cannon to left of them,Cannon behind themVolley’d and thunder’d;Storm’d at with shot and shell,While horse and hero fell,They that had fought so wellCame thro’ the jaws of Death,Back from the mouth of Hell,All that was left of them,Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?O the wild charge they made!All the world wonder’d.Honour the charge they made!Honour the Light Brigade,Noble six hundred!
Tennyson.
Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace? We have made them a curse,Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own;And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worseThan the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearthstone?Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by,When the poor are hovell’d and hustled together, each sex, like swine,When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie;Peace in her vineyard—yes!—but a company forges the wine.And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian’s head,And the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife,And chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread,And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life,When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial fee,And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children’s bones,Is it peace or war? better, war! loud war by land and sea,War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones.For I trust if an enemy’s fleet came yonder round by the hillAnd the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the foam,That the smooth-faced snub-nosed rogue would leap from his counter and till,And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yard-wand, home!Lord Tennyson.
Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace? We have made them a curse,Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own;And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worseThan the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearthstone?Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by,When the poor are hovell’d and hustled together, each sex, like swine,When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie;Peace in her vineyard—yes!—but a company forges the wine.And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian’s head,And the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife,And chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread,And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life,When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial fee,And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children’s bones,Is it peace or war? better, war! loud war by land and sea,War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones.For I trust if an enemy’s fleet came yonder round by the hillAnd the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the foam,That the smooth-faced snub-nosed rogue would leap from his counter and till,And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yard-wand, home!Lord Tennyson.
Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace? We have made them a curse,Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own;And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worseThan the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearthstone?
Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by,When the poor are hovell’d and hustled together, each sex, like swine,When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie;Peace in her vineyard—yes!—but a company forges the wine.
And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian’s head,And the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife,And chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread,And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life,When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial fee,And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children’s bones,Is it peace or war? better, war! loud war by land and sea,War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones.
For I trust if an enemy’s fleet came yonder round by the hillAnd the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the foam,That the smooth-faced snub-nosed rogue would leap from his counter and till,And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yard-wand, home!
Lord Tennyson.