A Chant of love for England

A SONG of hate is a song of Hell;

Some there be that sing it well.

Let them sing it loud and long,

We lift our hearts in a loftier song:

We lift our hearts to Heaven above,

Singing the glory of her we love,—

England!

Glory of thought and glory of deed,

Glory of Hampden and Runnymede;

Glory of ships that sought far goals,

Glory of swords and glory of souls!

Glory of songs mounting as birds,

Glory immortal of magical words;

Glory of Milton, glory of Nelson,

Tragical glory of Gordon and Scott;

Glory of Shelley, glory of Sidney,

Glory transcendent that perishes not,—

Hers is the story, hers be the glory,

England!

Shatter her beauteous breast ye may;

The spirit of England none can slay!

Dash the bomb on the dome of Paul’s—

Deem ye the fame of the Admiral falls?

Pry the stone from the chancel floor,—

Dream ye that Shakespeare shall live no more?

Where is the giant shot that kills

Wordsworth walking the old green hills?

Trample the red rose on the ground,—

Keats is Beauty while earth spins round!

Bind her, grind her, burn her with fire,

Cast her ashes into the sea,—

She shall escape, she shall aspire,

She shall arise to make men free:

She shall arise in a sacred scorn,

Lighting the lives that are yet unborn;

Spirit supernal, Splendour eternal,

ENGLAND!