Hear, England, and be sad; for he
Who peals this palinode to-day,
The oppressor once could scathe and flay.
Shame that his muse no more is free
When England blocks the way.
Our sore no patriot hand must touch
Even for healing: song shall rave
Against the Statesman old, but brave
Who dares—where youth, craven o’ermuch,
Shrinks—the sharp strokes that save.