To The Reformers Of England

God bless ye, brothers! in the fight     Ye 're waging now, ye cannot fail,     For better is your sense of right     Than king-craft's triple mail.     Than tyrant's law, or bigot's ban,     More mighty is your simplest word;     The free heart of an honest man     Than crosier or the sword.     Go, let your blinded Church rehearse     The lesson it has learned so well;     It moves not with its prayer or curse     The gates of heaven or hell.     Let the State scaffold rise again;     Did Freedom die when Russell died?     Forget ye how the blood of Vane     From earth's green bosom cried?     The great hearts of your olden time     Are beating with you, full and strong;     All holy memories and sublime     And glorious round ye throng.     The bluff, bold men of Runnymede     Are with ye still in times like these;     The shades of England's mighty dead,     Your cloud of witnesses!     The truths ye urge are borne abroad     By every wind and every tide;     The voice of Nature and of God     Speaks out upon your side.     The weapons which your hands have found     Are those which Heaven itself has wrought,     Light, Truth, and Love; your battle-ground     The free, broad field of Thought.     No partial, selfish purpose breaks     The simple beauty of your plan,     Nor lie from throne or altar shakes     Your steady faith in man.     The languid pulse of England starts     And bounds beneath your words of power,     The beating of her million hearts     Is with you at this hour!     O ye who, with undoubting eyes,     Through present cloud and gathering storm,     Behold the span of Freedom's skies,     And sunshine soft and warm;     Press bravely onward! not in vain     Your generous trust in human-kind;     The good which bloodshed could not gain     Your peaceful zeal shall find.     Press on! the triumph shall be won     Of common rights and equal laws,     The glorious dream of Harrington,     And Sidney's good old cause.     Blessing the cotter and the crown,     Sweetening worn Labor's bitter cup;     And, plucking not the highest down,     Lifting the lowest up.     Press on! and we who may not share     The toil or glory of your fight     May ask, at least, in earnest prayer,     God's blessing on the right!