WATTS-DUNTON
IWhate’er of woe the Dark may hide in wombFor England, mother of kings of battle and song—Rapine, or racial hate’s mysterious wrong,Blizzard of Chance, or fiery dart of Doom—Let breath of Avon, rich of meadow-bloom,Bind her to that great daughter sever’d long—To near and far-off children young and strong—With fetters woven of Avon’s flower perfume.Welcome, ye English-speaking pilgrims, yeWhose hands around the world are join’d by him,Who make his speech the language of the sea,Till winds of ocean waft from rim to rimThe Breath of Avon: let this great day beA Feast of Race no power shall ever dim.IIFrom where the steeds of earth’s twin oceans tossTheir manes along Columbia’s chariot-way;From where Australia’s long blue billows play;From where the morn, quenching the Southern Cross,Startling the frigate-bird and albatrossAsleep in air, breaks over Table Bay—Come hither, pilgrims, where these rushes sway‘Tween grassy banks of Avon soft as moss!For, if ye found the breath of ocean sweet,Sweeter is Avon’s earthy, flowery smell,Distill’d from roots that feel the coming spellOf May, who bids all flowers that lov’d him meetIn meadows that, remembering Shakespeare’s feet,Hold still a dream of music where they fell.Theodore Watts-Dunton.
IWhate’er of woe the Dark may hide in wombFor England, mother of kings of battle and song—Rapine, or racial hate’s mysterious wrong,Blizzard of Chance, or fiery dart of Doom—Let breath of Avon, rich of meadow-bloom,Bind her to that great daughter sever’d long—To near and far-off children young and strong—With fetters woven of Avon’s flower perfume.Welcome, ye English-speaking pilgrims, yeWhose hands around the world are join’d by him,Who make his speech the language of the sea,Till winds of ocean waft from rim to rimThe Breath of Avon: let this great day beA Feast of Race no power shall ever dim.IIFrom where the steeds of earth’s twin oceans tossTheir manes along Columbia’s chariot-way;From where Australia’s long blue billows play;From where the morn, quenching the Southern Cross,Startling the frigate-bird and albatrossAsleep in air, breaks over Table Bay—Come hither, pilgrims, where these rushes sway‘Tween grassy banks of Avon soft as moss!For, if ye found the breath of ocean sweet,Sweeter is Avon’s earthy, flowery smell,Distill’d from roots that feel the coming spellOf May, who bids all flowers that lov’d him meetIn meadows that, remembering Shakespeare’s feet,Hold still a dream of music where they fell.Theodore Watts-Dunton.
I
Whate’er of woe the Dark may hide in wombFor England, mother of kings of battle and song—Rapine, or racial hate’s mysterious wrong,Blizzard of Chance, or fiery dart of Doom—Let breath of Avon, rich of meadow-bloom,Bind her to that great daughter sever’d long—To near and far-off children young and strong—With fetters woven of Avon’s flower perfume.Welcome, ye English-speaking pilgrims, yeWhose hands around the world are join’d by him,Who make his speech the language of the sea,Till winds of ocean waft from rim to rimThe Breath of Avon: let this great day beA Feast of Race no power shall ever dim.
II
From where the steeds of earth’s twin oceans tossTheir manes along Columbia’s chariot-way;From where Australia’s long blue billows play;From where the morn, quenching the Southern Cross,Startling the frigate-bird and albatrossAsleep in air, breaks over Table Bay—Come hither, pilgrims, where these rushes sway‘Tween grassy banks of Avon soft as moss!For, if ye found the breath of ocean sweet,Sweeter is Avon’s earthy, flowery smell,Distill’d from roots that feel the coming spellOf May, who bids all flowers that lov’d him meetIn meadows that, remembering Shakespeare’s feet,Hold still a dream of music where they fell.
Theodore Watts-Dunton.
(‘ENGLAND STANDS ALONE—WITHOUT AN ALLY.’
—A Continental Newspaper)
‘She stands alone: ally nor friend has she,’Saith Europe of our England—her who boreDrake, Blake, and Nelson—Warrior-Queen who woreLight’s conquering glaive that strikes the conquered free.Alone!—From Canada comes o’er the sea,And from that English coast with coral shore,The old-world cry Europe hath heard of yoreFrom Dover cliffs: ‘Ready, aye ready we!’‘Europe,’ saith England, ‘hath forgot my boys!—Forgot how tall, in yonder golden zone‘Neath Austral skies, my youngest born have grown(Bearers of bayonets now and swords for toys)—Forgot ’mid boltless thunder—harmless noise—The sons with whom old England ‘stands alone!’Theodore Watts-Dunton.
‘She stands alone: ally nor friend has she,’Saith Europe of our England—her who boreDrake, Blake, and Nelson—Warrior-Queen who woreLight’s conquering glaive that strikes the conquered free.Alone!—From Canada comes o’er the sea,And from that English coast with coral shore,The old-world cry Europe hath heard of yoreFrom Dover cliffs: ‘Ready, aye ready we!’‘Europe,’ saith England, ‘hath forgot my boys!—Forgot how tall, in yonder golden zone‘Neath Austral skies, my youngest born have grown(Bearers of bayonets now and swords for toys)—Forgot ’mid boltless thunder—harmless noise—The sons with whom old England ‘stands alone!’Theodore Watts-Dunton.
‘She stands alone: ally nor friend has she,’Saith Europe of our England—her who boreDrake, Blake, and Nelson—Warrior-Queen who woreLight’s conquering glaive that strikes the conquered free.Alone!—From Canada comes o’er the sea,And from that English coast with coral shore,The old-world cry Europe hath heard of yoreFrom Dover cliffs: ‘Ready, aye ready we!’‘Europe,’ saith England, ‘hath forgot my boys!—Forgot how tall, in yonder golden zone‘Neath Austral skies, my youngest born have grown(Bearers of bayonets now and swords for toys)—Forgot ’mid boltless thunder—harmless noise—The sons with whom old England ‘stands alone!’
Theodore Watts-Dunton.