Alas! poor man, what blockish curse
Would violate thy universe,
To enchain thy freedom and entomb
Thy pleasance in devouring gloom?
Behold thy savage foes of yore
With woes of pestilence and war,
Siva and Moloch, Odin and Thor,
Rise from their graves to greet amain
The deeds that give them life again.

Poor man, sunk deeper than thy slime
In blood and hate, in terror and crime,
Thou who wert lifted on the wings
Of thy desire, the king of kings,
In promise beyond ken sublime:
O thou man-soul, who mightest climb
To heavenly happiness, whereof
Thine easy path were Mirth and Love!

October, 1918.

ENGLAND TO INDIA
Christmas, 1918.

Beautiful is man’s home: how fair,
Wrapt in her robe of azurous air,
The Earth thro’ stress of ice and fire
Came on the path of God’s desire,
Redeeming Chaos, to compose
Exquisite forms of lily and rose,
With every creature a design
Of loveliness or craft divine
Searchable and unsearchable,
And each insect a miracle!

Truth is as Beauty unconfined:
Various as Nature is man’s Mind:
Each race and tribe is as a flower
Set in God’s garden with its dower
Of special instinct; and man’s grace
Compact of all must all embrace.
China and Ind, Hellas or France,
Each hath its own inheritance;
And each to Truth’s rich market brings
Its bright divine imaginings,
In rival tribute to surprise
The world with native merchandise.
Nor least in worth nor last in years
Of artists, poets, saints and seers,
England, in her far northern sea,
Fashion’d the jewel of Liberty,
Fetch’d from the shore of Palestine
(Land of the Lily and mystic Vine).
Where once in the everlasting dawn
Christ’s Love-star flamed, that heavenly sign
Whereto all nations shall be drawn,
Unfabled Magi, and uplift
Each to Love’s cradle his own gift.

Thou who canst dream and understand,
Dost thou not dream for thine own land
This dream of Truth, and contemplate
That happier world, Love’s free Estate?
Say, didst thou dream, O Sister fair,
How hand in hand we entered there?

BRITANNIA VICTRIX

Careless wast thou in thy pride,
Queen of seas and countries wide,
Glorying on thy peaceful throne:—
Can thy love thy sins atone?
What shall dreams of glory serve,
If thy sloth thy doom deserve,
When the strong relentless foe
Storm thy gates to lay thee low?