1899

Who would trust England, let him lift his eyes 
To Nelson, columned o'er Trafalgar Square, 
Her hieroglyph of duty, written where 
The roar of traffic hushes to the skies; 
Or mark, while Paul's vast shadow softly lies 
On Gordon's statued sleep, how praise and prayer 
Flush through the frank young faces clustering there 
To con that kindred rune of sacrifice. 
O England, no bland cloud-ship in the blue, 
But rough oak plunging on o'er perilous jars 
Of reef and ice, our faith will follow you 
The more for tempest roar that strains your spars 
And splits your canvas, be your helm but true, 
Your courses shapen by the eternal stars.



1900

The nightmare melts at last, and London wakes 
To her old habit of victorious ease. 
More men, and more, and more for over-seas, 
More guns until the giant hammer breaks 
That patriot folk whom even God forsakes. 
Shall not Great England work her will on these, 
The foolish little nations, and appease 
An angry shame that in her memory aches? 
But far beyond the fierce-contested flood, 
The cannon-planted pass, the shell-torn town, 
The last wild carnival of fire and blood, 
Beware, beware that dim and awful Shade, 
Armored with Milton's sword and Cromwell's frown, 
Affronted Freedom, of her own betrayed!