Freedom of England! from thy sacred source
Where Alfred arm'd in Athelney, welling pure,
With hero-blood dyed in thy widening course,
--What loyaler hand than her's to guide thy force
Down ancient channels sure?
Honour of England! in what bosom stirs
Thy soul more quick than her's?
Yet in her days . . . O greater grief, than when
In years of woe, the years of happiness
Flash o'er us,--to behold,--and no redress,--
Some deed of shame we cannot cure nor stay!
Our best, our man of men,
Martyr'd inch-meal by dull delay!
Ah, sacred, hidden grave!
Ah gallant comrade feet, love-wing'd to save,
Too late, too late!--But Thou, Whose counsels work unseen,
Spare us henceforth such pangs, spare England's Queen
O much enduring, much revered! To thee
Bring sun-dyed millions love more sweet than fame,
And happy isles that star the purple sea
Homage;--and children at the mother's knee
With her's unite thy name;
And faithful hearts, that throb 'neath palm and pine,
From East to West, are thine.
For as some pillar-star o'er sea and storm
Whole fleets to haven guides, so from that height
One great example points the path of Right,
And purifies the home; with gracious aid
Lifting the fallen form.
See Death by finer skill delay'd;
Kind hearts to wait on woe,
And feet of Love that in Christ's footsteps go;
Wild wastes of life reclaim'd by Woman's hand unseen:
All England bless'd with England's Empress Queen.
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