When England knew not poverty, nor crime,
Described by Cobbett, who would not go bail
For falsehood, nor let truth remain in jail.
It must, then, have renewed life from its slime,
For, oh! through deeds, that turn the blood to chyme
And eyes white inward, see him ride the gale.
In English nature—oh, where now the saint—
The spirit, to sublime conceptions, true?
Has good Saint George, too woundful to renew
His conflict with the dragon of base taint,