32.
And the prostrate multitude
Looked—and ankle-deep in blood,
Hope, that maiden most serene,
Was walking with a quiet mien:
33.
And Anarchy, the ghastly birth, _130
Lay dead earth upon the earth;
The Horse of Death tameless as wind
Fled, and with his hoofs did grind
To dust the murderers thronged behind.
34.
A rushing light of clouds and splendour, _135
A sense awakening and yet tender
Was heard and felt—and at its close
These words of joy and fear arose
35.
As if their own indignant Earth
Which gave the sons of England birth _140
Had felt their blood upon her brow,
And shuddering with a mother’s throe
36.
Had turned every drop of blood
By which her face had been bedewed
To an accent unwithstood,— _145
As if her heart had cried aloud:
37.
‘Men of England, heirs of Glory,
Heroes of unwritten story,
Nurslings of one mighty Mother,
Hopes of her, and one another; _150
38.
‘Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number,
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you—
Ye are many—they are few. _155
39.
‘What is Freedom?—ye can tell
That which slavery is, too well—
For its very name has grown
To an echo of your own.
40.
‘’Tis to work and have such pay _160
As just keeps life from day to day
In your limbs, as in a cell
For the tyrants’ use to dwell,
41.
‘So that ye for them are made
Loom, and plough, and sword, and spade, _165
With or without your own will bent
To their defence and nourishment.