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GREEN FIELDS OF ENGLAND

GREEN fields of England ! wheresoe'er
Across this watery waste we fare,
Your image at our hearts we bear,
Green fields of England, everywhere.
Sweet eyes in England, I must flee.
Past where the waves' last confines be,
Ere your loved smile I cease to see,
Sweet eyes in England, dear to me.
Dear home in England, safe and fast,
If but in thee my lot be cast,
The past shall seem a nothing past
To thee, dear home, if won at last;
Dear home in England, won at last.

- ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

SAXON GRIT
WORN with the battle by Stamford town,

Fighting the Norman by Hastings bay,
Harold the Saxon's sun went down,

While the acorns were falling one autumn day.
Then the Norman said, “I am lord of the land:

By tenor of conquest here I sit;
I will rule you now with the iron hand;"

But he had not thought of the Saxon grit.
He took the land, and he took the men,

And burnt the homesteads from Trent to Tyne,
Made the freemen serfs by a stroke of the pen,

Eat up the corn and drank the wine,
And said to the maiden, pure and fair,
“ You shall be my leman, as is most fit,
Your Saxon churl may rot in his lair ;”.

But he had not measured the Saxon grit.
To the merry greenwood went bold Robin Hood,

With his strong-hearted yeomanry ripe for the fray, Driving the arrow into the marrow

Of all the proud Normans who came in his way ; Scorning the fetter, fearless and free,

Winning by valor, or foiling by wit, Dear to our Saxon folk ever is he,

This merry old rogue with the Saxon grit. And Kett the tanner whipp'd out his knife,

And Watt the smith his hammer brought down, For ruth of the maid he loved better than life,

And by breaking a head, made a hole in the Crown.

From the Saxon heart rose a mighty roar,

“Our life shall not be by the King's permit; We will fight for the right, we want no more ;”

Then the Norman found out the Saxon grit.

For slow and sure as the oaks had grown

From the acorns falling that autumn day, So the Saxon manhood in thorpe and town

To a nobler stature grew alway; Winning by inches, holding by clinches,

Standing by law and the human right, Many times failing, never once quailing,

So the new day came out of the night.

Then rising afar in the Western sea,

A new world stood in the morn of the day, Ready to welcome the brave and free,

Who could wrench out the heart and march away From the narrow, contracted, dear old land,

Where the poor are held by a cruel bit, i To ampler spaces for heart and hand

And here was a chance for the Saxon grit. Steadily steering, eagerly peering,

Trusting in God your fathers came, Pilgrims and strangers, fronting all dangers,

Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts aflame. Bound by the letter, but free from the fetter,

And hiding their freedom in Holy Writ, They gave Deuteronomy hints in economy,

And made a new Moses of Saxon grit.

They whittled and waded through forest and fen,

Fearless as ever of what might befall; Pouring out life for the nurture of men,

In faith that by manhood the world wins all. Inventing baked beans and no end of machines;

Great with the rifle and great with the axe — Sending their notions over the oceans,

To fill empty stomachs and straighten bent backs.

Swift to take chances that end in the dollar,

Yet open of hand when the dollar is made, Maintaining the meetin', exalting the scholar,

But a little too anxious about a good trade; This is young Jonathan, son of old John,

Positive, peaceable, firm in the right, Saxon men all of us, may we be one,

Steady for freedom, and strong in her might.

Then, slow and sure, as the oaks have grown

From the acorns that fell on that autumn day, So this new manhood in city and town,

To a nobler stature will grow alway: Winning by inches, holding by clinches,

Slow to contention, and slower to quit, Now and then failing, never once quailing, Let us thank God for the Saxon grit.

ROBERT COLLYER.

THE PATRIOT'S DEATH
COME to the bridal chamber, Death,

Come to the mother, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;

Come when the blessèd seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm

With banquet song and dance and wine –
And thou art terrible; the tear,
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear

Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come when his task of fame is wrought;
Come with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought;

Come in her crowning hour — and then
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prison'd men;
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh

To the world-seeking Genoese,
When the land-wind, from woods of palm,
And orange-groves, and fields of balm,
Blew o'er the Haytian seas.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK (Marco Bozzaris).

WESTWARD THE COURSE OF EMPIRE
THE Muse, disgusted at an age and clime

Barren of every glorious theme,
In distant lands now waits a better time,

Producing subjects worthy fame;
In happy climes, where from the genial sun

And virgin earth such scenes ensue,
The force of art by nature seems outdone,

And fancied beauties by the true :
In happy climes the seat of innocence,

Where nature guides and virtue rules,
Where men shall not impose, for truth and sense,

The pedantry of courts and schools :
There shall be sung another golden age,

The rise of empire and of arts,
The good and great uprising epic rage,

The wisest heads and noblest hearts.
Not such as Europe breeds in her decay ;

Such as she bred when fresh and young,
When heavenly flame did animate her clay,

By future poets shall be sung.
Westward the course of empire takes its way;

The first four acts already past,
The fifth shall close the drama with the day ;
Time's noblest offspring is the last.

GEORGE BERKELEY.

BANNOCKBURN
Ar Bannockburn the English lay —
The Scots they were na far away,
But waited for the break o' day

That glinted in the east.
But soon the sun broke through the heath
And lighted up that field o' death,
When Bruce, wi' saul-inspiring breath,

His heralds thus addressed :-
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to victorie.
Now's the day, and now 's the hour,
See the front o' battle lour;

See approach proud Edward's power

Chains and slaverie !
Wha will be a traitor knave ?
Wha can fill a coward's grave ?
Wha sae base as be a slave ?

Let him turn and flee !
Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman fa' ?

Let him follow me!
By Oppression's woes and pains !
By our sons in servile chains !
We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low !
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty 's in every blow !
Let us do, or die !

ROBERT BURNS.
THE AMERICAN FLAG
WHEN Freedom, from her mountain height,

Unfurl'd her standard to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night,

And set the stars of glory there!
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure, celestial white
With streakings of the morning light;
Then, from his mansion in the sun,
She call'd her eagle-bearer down,
And gave into his mighty hand
The symbol of her chosen land.
Majestic monarch of the cloud !

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form,
To hear the tempest trumping loud,
And see the lightning lances driven,

When strive the warriors of the storm,
And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, -
Child of the Sun ! to thee 't is given

To guard the banner of the free,
To hover in the sulphur smoke,
To ward away the battle stroke,
And bid its blendings shine afar,
Like rainbows on the cloud of war,

The harbingers of victory!

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