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BY GERALD Ma.s.sEY.
High hopes that burn'd like stars sublime, Go down i' the heaven of freedom; And true hearts perish in the time We bitterliest need 'em!
But never sit we down and say There's nothing left but sorrow; We walk the wilderness to-day-- The promised land to-morrow!
Our birds of song are silent now, Few are the flowers blooming, Yet life is in the frozen bough, And freedom's spring is coming; And freedom's tide creeps up alway, Though we may strand in sorrow; And our good bark, aground to-day, Shall float again to-morrow.
'Tis weary watching wave by wave, And yet the Tide heaves onward; We climb, like Corals, grave by grave, That pave a pathway sunward; We are driven back, for our next fray A newer strength to borrow, And where the Vanguard camps to-day The Rear shall rest to-morrow!
Through all the long, dark night of years The people's cry ascendeth, And earth is wet with blood and tears: But our meek sufferance endeth!
The few shall not for ever sway-- The many moil in sorrow; The powers of h.e.l.l are strong to-day, The Christ shall rise to-morrow!
Though hearts brood o'er the past, our eyes With smiling futures glisten!
For lo! our day bursts up the skies Lean out your souls and listen!
The world is rolling freedom's way, And ripening with her sorrow; Take heart! who bear the Cross to-day, Shall wear the Crown to-morrow!
O youth! flame-earnest, still aspire With energies immortal!
To many a heaven of desire Our yearning opes a portal; And though age wearies by the way, And hearts break in the furrow-- Youth sows the golden grain to-day-- The harvest comes to-morrow!
Build up heroic lives, and all Be like a sheathen sabre, Ready to flash out at G.o.d's call-- O chivalry of labour!
Triumph and toil are twins; though they Be singly born in sorrow, And 'tis the martyrdom to-day Brings victory to-morrow!
RING OUT, WILD BELLS.
BY LORD TENNYSON.
Ring out wild bells to the' wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the n.o.bler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing l.u.s.t of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.
RULE, BRITANNIA!
BY JAMES THOMSON.
When Britain first, at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sang this strain: "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves."
The nations not so blest as thee, Must in their turns to tyrants fall While thou shalt flourish great and free, The dread and envy of them all.
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves."
Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies, Serves but to root thy native oak.
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves."
Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy gen'rous flame To work _their_ woe and _thy_ renown.
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves."
To thee belongs the rural reign, Thy cities shall with commerce s.h.i.+ne, All thine shall be the subject main, And ev'ry sh.o.r.e it circles, thine.
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves."
The Muses, still with freedom found, Shall to thy happy coasts repair; Blest isle! with matchless beauty crown'd, And manly hearts to guard the fair.
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves."
