XIII
Glorious men, with heads of eagles,
Chopping arms, and cupboard lips;
Warriors, hunters, keen as beagles,
Mounted aye on horse or ships.
Active, being hungry creatures;
Silent, having nought to say:
High they raised the lord of features,
Saxon-worshipped to this day.
XIV
Hear its deeds, the great recital!
Stout as bergs of Arctic ice
Once it led, and lived; a title
Now it is, and names its price.
This our Saxon brothers cherish:
This, when by the worth of wits
Lands are reared aloft, or perish,
Sole illumes their lucre-pits.
XV
Know we not our wrongs, unwritten
Though they be, Aneurin? Sword,
Song, and subtle mind, the Briton
Brings to market, all ignored.
’Gainst the Saxon’s bone impinging,
Still is our Gododin played;
Shamed we see him humbly cringing
In a shadowy nose’s shade.
XVI
Bitter is the weight that crushes
Low, my Bard, thy race of fire.
Here no fair young future blushes
Bridal to a man’s desire.
Neither chief, nor aim, nor splendour
Dressing distance, we perceive.
Neither honour, nor the tender
Bloom of promise, morn or eve.
XVII
Joined we are; a tide of races
Rolled to meet a common fate;
England clasps in her embraces
Many: what is England’s state?
England her distended middle
Thumps with pride as Mammon’s wife;
Says that thus she reads thy riddle,
Heaven! ’tis heaven to plump her life.