Justice hath heaved a sword to plunge in Albion's breast;
for Albion's sins are crimson dy'd, and the red scourge
follows her desolate sons. Then Patriot rose; full oft did
Patriot rise, when Tyranny hath stain'd fair Albion's breast
with her own children's gore. Round his majestic feet deep
thunders roll; each heart does tremble, and each knee grows
slack. The stars of heaven tremble; the roaring voice of war,
the trumpet, calls to battle. Brother in brother's blood must
bathe -- rivers of death. O land most hapless! O beauteous
island, how forsaken! Weep from thy silver fountains, weep
from thy gentle rivers! The angel of the island weeps. Thy
widowed virgins weep beneath thy shades. Thy aged fathers
gird themselves for war. The sucking infant lives to die in
battle; the weeping mother feeds him for the slaughter. The
husbandman doth leave his bending harvest. Blood cries afar!
The land doth sow itself! The glittering youth of courts must
gleam in arms. The aged senators their ancient swords assume.
The trembling sinews of old age must work the work of death
against their progeny; for Tyranny hath stretch'd his purple
arm, and `Blood!' he cries; `the chariots and the horses, the
noise of shout, and dreadful thunder of the battle heard afar!
' Beware, O proud! thou shalt be humbled; thy cruel brow,
thine iron heart, is smitten, though lingering Fate is slow.
O yet may Albion smile again, and stretch her peaceful arms,
and raise her golden head exultingly! Her citizens shall
throng about her gates, her mariners shall sing upon the sea,
and myriads shall to her temples crowd! Her sons shall joy as
in the morning! Her daughters sing as to the rising year! |