we no longer fear imperial will, and, phoenix-like, the
peasant rises from the dust, stares with his blinded eyes,
and praises God.
Cold Royalty, intolerable, an outcast, false and dull, the
cruel lines about its lips still tightly drawn—lost in the
art of savagery—sees not the new rich dawn, hears not
the herald-trumpetings, knows not the meaning of a
broken crown.
Written for the Pilgrim Tercentenary, Plymouth, 1921.