_See you the dimpled track that runs,_
_All hollow through the wheat?_
_O that was where they hauled the guns_
_That smote King Philip’s fleet._
_See you our little mill that clacks,_
_So busy by the brook?_
_She has ground her corn and paid her tax_
_Ever since Domesday Book._
_See you our stilly woods of oak,_
_And the dread ditch beside?_
_O that was where the Saxons broke,_
_On the day that Harold died._
_See you the windy levels spread_
_About the gates of Rye?_
_O that was where the Northmen fled,_
_When Alfred’s ships came by._
_See you our pastures wide and lone,_
_Where the red oxen browse?_
_O there was a City thronged and known,_
_Ere London boasted a house._
_And see you, after rain, the trace_
_Of mound and ditch and wall?_
_O that was a Legion’s camping-place,_
_When Cæsar sailed from Gaul._
_And see you marks that show and fade,_
_Like shadows on the Downs?_
_O they are the lines the Flint Men made,_
_To guard their wondrous towns._
_Trackway and Camp and City lost,_
_Salt Marsh where now is corn;_
_Old Wars, old Peace, old Arts that cease,_
_And so was England born!_
_She is not any common Earth,_
_Water or wood or air,_
_But Merlin’s Isle of Gramarye,_
_Where you and I will fare._