None may foretell;
But this we know:
As fire testeth iron through and through,
So shall it be with you!
Not yet have you passed furnace-wise,
But soon, with newly opened eyes,
Upon your knees,
You shall discern Heaven's judgment on an age-long ease.
Poets and prophets darkly sang;
Unheeded then the tocsin rang;
But now the sky is grey and dim,
Your enemy is stern and grim,
Your leaders slow;
And, though you realise it not ...
You may lie low:
For, though to fight one son is bold,
Another hides, amassing gold;
The strain falls not in equal measure:
Whilst some lie cold—
Others distil their blood for treasure,
And that—Old England—if unchecked,
Shall see your ancient Empire wrecked.
You battle not to vanquish a great nation,
Nor for safety, nor the sceptre of the seas,
Nor for the Empire of a world at ease,
Nor fame's fair scroll:
For your salvation,
You wrestle with Apollyon for your soul.
And if you fail—
Your epitaph: 'too late'—
The Angel with the Pen shall grave your fate:
Your glorious history of no avail;
Whilst all the Earth shall know you were not great.
Not arms, nor weapons forged, nor serried forces,
Nor stout Allies nor multiplied resources
The victory giveth;
Not ships afar, nor numbers gradual tale,
Nor all your might, oh Britain! shall avail:
Only the Spirit liveth!
Yet this our hope (a hope unsaid),
And still our faith (though faith be dead),
That, as of old, you may awake,
Cast off your senile mood, and shake
Irresolution to the wall;
Bid equal sacrifice from all;
That each surrender to the state
A measured offering to fate,
Till Unity of Will, controlled
Shines through the nation, manifold:
Then should your Spirit conquer as before,
And Phœnix-like you should renew your youth and strength once more.
Return
From exile and disaster,
From banishment set free,
We shall return in sorrow,
Our homes once more to see.
The storm will surely finish,
The day must dawn at last,
The floods at length diminish,
The bitterness be past.