WHAT have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown,
England—
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you’ve done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England—
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:—
‘Take and break us: we are yours,
‘England, my own!
‘Life is good, and joy runs high
‘Between English earth and sky:
‘Death is death; but we shall die
‘To the Song on your bugles blown,
‘England—
‘To the stars on your bugles blown!
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies
You could know nor dread nor ease
Were the Song on your bugles blown,
England,
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea’s delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient sword,
There’s the menace of the Word
In the Song on your bugles blown,
England—
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
_EPILOGUE_
_These_, _to you now_, _O_, _more than ever now_—
_Now that the Ancient Enemy_
_Has passed_, _and we_, _we two that are one_, _have seen_
_A piece of perfect Life_
_Turn to so ravishing a shape of Death_
_The Arch-Discomforter might well have smiled_
_In pity and pride_,
_Even as he bore his lovely and innocent spoil_
_From those home-kingdoms he left desolate_!
_Poor windlestraws_
_On the great_, _sullen_, _roaring pool of Time_
_And Chance and Change_, _I know_!
_But they are yours_, _as I am_, _till we attain_
_That end for which me make_, _we two that are one_:
_A little_, _exquisite Ghost_
_Between us_, _smiling with the serenest eyes_
_Seen in this world_, _and calling_, _calling still_
_In that clear voice whose infinite subtleties_
_Of sweetness_, _thrilling back across the grave_,
_Break the poor heart to hear_:—
‘Come, Dadsie, come!
Mama, how long—how long!’
_July_ 1897.