O England! in thine hour of need,
When Faith's reward and Valour's meed
Is death or glory,
When Faith indites with biting brand,
Clasped in each warrior's stiffening hand,
A nation's story;
Though weak our hands, which fain would clasp
The warrior's sword with warrior's grasp
On victory's field;
Yet turn, O mighty Mother! turn
Unto the million hearts that burn
To be thy shield.
Thine equal justice, mercy, grace,
Have made a distant alien race
A part of thee.
'Twas thine to bid their souls rejoice
When first they heard the living voice
Of Liberty.
Unmindful of their ancient name,
And lost to honour--glory--fame,
And sunk in strife,
Thou foundst them, whom thy touch hath made
Men, and to whom thy breath conveyed
A nobler life.
They, whom thy love hath guarded long;
They, whom thy care hath rendered strong
In love and faith,
Whose heartstrings round thy heart entwine.
They are, they ever will be, thine
In life--in death.
NIZAMAT JUNG
(_Native Judge of the High Court of Hyderabad_)
"A SCRAP OF PAPER"
(_At the Queen's Hall, London, September 19, 1914_)
There is no man in this room who has always regarded the prospect of
our being engaged in a great war with greater reluctance, with greater
repugnance, than I have done throughout the whole of my political life.
There is no man more convinced that we could not have avoided this war
without national dishonour. I am fully alive to the fact that every
nation which has ever engaged in any war has always invoked the sacred
name of honour. Many a crime has been committed in its name. There
are some crimes being committed now. All the same, national honour is
a reality, and any nation that disregards it is doomed. Why is our
honour as a country involved in this war? It is because we are bound
by honourable obligations to defend the independence, the liberty, the
integrity of a small neighbour. She could not have compelled us. She
was weak. But the man who declines to discharge his duty because his
creditor is too poor to enforce it is a blackguard.
. . . . . . . . . .
What is a treaty, says the German Chancellor, but a scrap of paper?
Have you any five-pound notes about you? Have you any of those neat
little Treasury one-pound notes? If you have, burn them. They are only
scraps of paper. What are they made of? Rags! What are they worth?
The whole credit of the British Empire! Scraps of paper! I have been
dealing with scraps of paper in the last few weeks. We suddenly found
the commerce of the world coming to a standstill. The machine had
stopped. Why? The machinery of commerce was moved by bills of exchange.
I have seen some of them; wretched, crinkled, scrawled over, blotted,
frowzy; and yet those scraps of paper moved great ships, laden with
thousands of tons of precious cargo, from one end of the world to the
other. The motive power behind them was the honour of commercial men.
. . . . . . . . . .
This is the story of the little nations. The world owes much to little
nations and to little men. This theory of bigness--you must have a
big empire and a big nation and a big man--well, long legs have their
advantage in a retreat. Frederick the Great chose his warriors for
their height, and that tradition has become a policy in Germany.
Germany applies that ideal to nations. She will only allow six-foot-two
nations to stand in the ranks; but all the world owes much to the
little five-foot-five nations. The greatest art of the world was the
work of little nations. The most enduring literature of the world came
from little nations. The greatest literature of England came from her
when she was a nation of the size of Belgium fighting a great empire.
The heroic deeds that thrill humanity through generations were the
deeds of little nations fighting for their freedom. Ah, yes, and the
salvation of mankind came through a little nation. God has chosen
little nations as the vessels by which He carries the choicest wines to
the lips of humanity, to rejoice their hearts, to exalt their vision,
to stimulate and to strengthen their faith; and if we had stood by when
two little nations were being crushed and broken by the brutal hands of
barbarism, our shame would have rung down through the everlasting ages.
. . . . . . . . . .
The Prussian Junker is the road-hog of Europe. Small nationalities
in his way are flung to the roadside, bleeding and broken; women and
children crushed under the wheel of his cruel car; Britain ordered out
of his way. All I can say is this: If the old British spirit is alive
in British hearts, that bully will be torn from his seat. Were he to
win it would be the greatest catastrophe that has befallen democracy
since the days of the Holy Alliance and its ascendency. They think we
cannot beat them. It will not be easy. It will be a long job. It will
be a terrible war. But in the end we shall march through terror to
triumph. We shall need all our qualities--every quality that Britain
and its people possess--prudence in council, daring in action, tenacity
in purpose, courage in defeat, moderation in victory, in all things
faith, and we shall win.
. . . . . . . . . .
It is a great opportunity. It only comes once in many centuries to the
children of men. For most generations sacrifice comes in drab weariness
of spirit to men. It has come to-day to you, it has come to-day to
us all, in the form of the glow and thrill of a great movement for
liberty, that impels millions throughout Europe to the same noble end.
It is a great war for the emancipation of Europe from the thraldom of
a military caste, which has cast its shadow upon two generations of
men, and which has now plunged the world into a welter of bloodshed.
Some have already given their lives. There are some who have given more
than their own lives. They have given the lives of those who are dear
to them. I honour their courage, and may God be their comfort and their
strength. But their reward is at hand. Those who have fallen have had
consecrated deaths. They have taken their part in the making of a new
Europe, a new world. I can see the sign of it coming in the glare of
the battle-field. The people will gain more by this struggle in all
lands than they comprehend at the present time.
But that is not all. There is something infinitely greater and more
enduring which is emerging already out of this great conflict; a new
patriotism, richer, nobler, more exalted than the old one. I can see a
new recognition amongst all classes, high and low, shedding themselves
of selfishness--a new recognition that the honour of a country does
not depend merely on the maintenance of its glory in the stricken
field, but in protecting its homes from distress as well. It is a new
patriotism. It is bringing a new outlook for all classes. A great
flood of luxury and of sloth which had submerged the land is receding,
and a new Britain is appearing. We can see for the first time the
fundamental things that matter in life, and that have been obscured
from our vision by the tropical growth of prosperity.
May I tell you, in a simple parable, what I think this war is doing for
us? I know a valley in North Wales, between the mountains and the sea,
a beautiful valley, snug, comfortable, sheltered by the mountains from
all the bitter blasts. It was very enervating, and I remember how the
boys were in the habit of climbing the hills above the village to have
a glimpse of the great mountains in the distance and to be stimulated
and freshened by the breeze which came from the hilltops, and by the
great spectacle of that great range.
We have been living in a sheltered valley for generations. We have been
too comfortable, too indulgent; many, perhaps, too selfish. And the
stern hand of fate has scourged us to an elevation where we can see the
great everlasting things that matter for a nation, the great peaks of
honour we had forgotten, duty and patriotism, and, clad in glittering
white, the great pinnacle of sacrifice pointing like a rugged finger to
Heaven. We shall descend into the valleys again; but as long as the men
and women of this generation last they will carry in their hearts the
image of these great mountain peaks, whose foundations are unshaken,
though Europe rock and sway in the convulsions of a great war.