O for an hour of Cromwell's might
Who raised an Empire out of dust,
And lifted it to noontide light
By simple and heroic trust;
Whose word was like a swordsman's thrust,
And clove its way through crowned night.
We want old England's iron stock,
Hewn of the same eternal rock.
Where is the man of equal part,
To rule by right divine of power;
With statesman's head and soldier's heart,
And all the ages' dreadful dower
Brought to a bright and perfect flower--
From whom a nobler course may start?
We hear but faction's fume and cry,
With England in her agony.
Where is the master mind that reads
The far-off issues of the day,
And with a willing nation pleads
That loves to own a master sway?
Where are the landmarks on the way,
Set up alone by him who leads?
We vainly ask a common creed
To make us one in England's need.
Is there no man with broader reach
To fill a thorny throne of care,
And bravely act and bravely teach
Because in all he has a share?
No helper who will do and dare,
And stand a bulwark in the breach?
Have we no lord of England's fate,
Though coming from a cottage gate?
O surely somewhere is the hand
To grasp and guide this reeling realm,
While in the hour-glass sinks the sand
And faints the pilot at the helm;
If billows break to overwhelm,
Yet he will conquer and command.
England is waiting to be led,
If through the dying and the dead.
We do not seek the party fame
That trafficks in a people's fall,
But one to shield our burning shame
And answer just his country's call;
To weld us in a solid wall,
And kindle with a common flame.
Ah, when she finds the fitting man,
England will do what England can.