To England.

I.      There was a time when all thy sons were proud         To speak thy name,      England, when Europe echoed back aloud         Thy fearless fame:      When Spain reeled shattered helpless from thy guns         And splendid ire,      When from Canadian snows to Indian suns         Pitt's soul was fire.      O that in days like these were, fair and free         From shame and scorn,      Fate had allowed, benignly, pityingly         That I was born!      O that, if struck, then struck with glorious wounds,         I bore apart      (Not torn with fangs of leprous coward hounds)         My bleeding heart! II.      We hate you - not because of cruel deeds         Staining a glorious effort. They who live         Learn in this earth to give and to forgive,      Where heart and soul are noble and fate's needs      Imperious: No, nor yet that cruel seeds         Of power and wrong you've sown alternative,         We hate you, we your sons who yet believe      That truth and justice are not empty creeds!      No, but because of greed and golden pay,         Wages of sin and death: because you smother      Your conscience, making cursed all the day.         Bible in one hand, bludgeon in the other,         Cain-like you come upon and slay your brother,      And, kneeling down, thank God for it, and pray! III.      I whom you fed with shame and starved with woe,         I wheel above you,      Your fatal vulture, for I hate you so,         I almost love you!      I smell your ruin out. I light and croak         My sombre lore,      As swaggering you go by, O heart of oak         Rotten to the core!      Look westward! Ireland's vengeful eyes are cast         On freedom won.      Look eastward! India stirs from sleep at last.         You are undone!      Look southward, where Australia hears your voice,         And turns away!      O brutal hypocrite, she makes her choice         With the rising day!      Foul Esau, you who sold your high birthright         For gilded mud,      Who did the wrong and, priestlike, called it right,         And swindled God!      The hour is gone of insult, pain and patience;         The hour is come      When they arise, the faithful mightier nations,         To drag you down! IV.      England, the land I loved         With passionate pride,      For hate of whom I live         Who for love had died,      Can I, while shines the sun,         That hour regain      When I again may come to thee         And love again?      No, not while that flag         Of greed and lust      Flaunts in the air, untaught         To drag the dust! -      Never, till expiant,         I see you kneel,      And, brandished, gleams aloft         The foeman's steel!      Ah, then to speed, and laugh,         As my heart caught the knife:      "Mother, I love you! Here,         Here is my life!"