It surely is a fearful doom,
That one so beautiful should have
No present quiet in her tomb,
No hope beyond the grave.
It must be, that some amulet
Doth make all human pity vain,
Or that upon her brow is set
The silent seal of pain,
Which none can meet—else long ago,
Since many gentle hearts are there,
Some spirit, touched by joy or woe,
Had answered to her prayer.
But so it is, that till this hour
That mournful child beneath the moon
Still rises from her watery bower,
To urge this simple boon—
To beg, as all have need of grace,
That they would speak the words divine,
And, sprinkling water in her face,
Would make the sacred sign.
ENGLAND.
Peace, Freedom, Happiness, have loved to wait
On the fair islands, fenced by circling seas,
And ever of such favoured spots as these
Have the wise dreamers dreamed, that would create
That perfect model of a happy state,
Which the world never saw. Oceana,
Utopia such, and Plato’s isle that lay
Westward of Gades and the Great Sea’s gate.
Dreams are they all, which yet have helped to make
That underneath fair polities we dwell,
Though marred in part by envy, faction, hate—
Dreams which are dear, dear England, for thy sake,
Who art indeed that sea-girt citadel,
And nearest image of that perfect state.