An Appeal

I     Art thou indeed among these,     Thou of the tyrannous crew,     The kingdoms fed upon blood,     O queen from of old of the seas,     England, art thou of them too     That drink of the poisonous flood,     That hide under poisonous trees? II     Nay, thy name from of old,     Mother, was pure, or we dreamed     Purer we held thee than this,     Purer fain would we hold;     So goodly a glory it seemed,     A fame so bounteous of bliss,     So more precious than gold. III     A praise so sweet in our ears,     That thou in the tempest of things     As a rock for a refuge shouldst stand,     In the bloodred river of tears     Poured forth for the triumph of kings;     A safeguard, a sheltering land,     In the thunder and torrent of years. IV     Strangers came gladly to thee,     Exiles, chosen of men,     Safe for thy sake in thy shade,     Sat down at thy feet and were free.     So men spake of thee then;     Now shall their speaking be stayed?     Ah, so let it not be! V     Not for revenge or affright,     Pride, or a tyrannous lust,     Cast from thee the crown of thy praise.     Mercy was thine in thy might;     Strong when thou wert, thou wert just;     Now, in the wrong-doing days,     Cleave thou, thou at least, to the right. VI     How should one charge thee, how sway,     Save by the memories that were?     Not thy gold nor the strength of thy ships,     Nor the might of thine armies at bay,     Made thee, mother, most fair;     But a word from republican lips     Said in thy name in thy day. VII     Hast thou said it, and hast thou forgot?     Is thy praise in thine ears as a scoff?     Blood of men guiltless was shed,     Children, and souls without spot,     Shed, but in places far off;     Let slaughter no more be, said     Milton; and slaughter was not. VIII     Was it not said of thee too,     Now, but now, by thy foes,     By the slaves that had slain their France,     And thee would slay as they slew,     Down with her walls that enclose     Freemen that eye us askance,     Fugitives, men that are true! IX     This was thy praise or thy blame     From bondsman or freeman, to be     Pure from pollution of slaves,     Clean of their sins, and thy name     Bloodless, innocent, free;     Now if thou be not, thy waves     Wash not from off thee thy shame. X     Freeman he is not, but slave,     Whoso in fear for the State     Cries for surety of blood,     Help of gibbet and grave;     Neither is any land great     Whom, in her fear-stricken mood,     These things only can save. XI     Lo, how fair from afar,     Taintless of tyranny, stands     Thy mighty daughter, for years     Who trod the winepress of war;     Shines with immaculate hands;     Slays not a foe, neither fears;     Stains not peace with a scar. XII     Be not as tyrant or slave,     England; be not as these,     Thou that wert other than they.     Stretch out thine hand, but to save;     Put forth thy strength, and release;     Lest there arise, if thou slay,     Thy shame as a ghost from the grave.