Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire
  Upon thy foes, was never meant my task: 
  But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake
  Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart
  As any thunderer there.  And I can feel
  Thy follies too; and with a just disdain
  Frown at effeminates whose very looks
  Reflect dishonor on the land I love. 
  How, in the name of soldiership and sense,
  Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth
  And tender as a girl, all essenced o’er
  With odors, and as profligate as sweet,
  Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath,
  And love when they should fight,—­when such as these
  Presume to lay their hand upon the ark
  Of her magnificent and awful cause? 
  Time was when it was praise and boast enough
  In every clime, and travel where we might,
  That we were born her children.  Praise enough
  To fill the ambition of a private man,
  That Chatham’s language was his mother tongue,
  And Wolfe’s great name compatriot with his own.

WILLIAM COWPER.

* * * * *

RULE, BRITANNIA.

FROM “ALFRED,” ACT II.  SC. 5.

  When Britain first, at Heaven’s command,
    Arose from out the azure main,
  This was the charter of the land,
    And guardian angels sung the strain: 
      Rule, Britannia, rule the waves! 
      For Britons never will be slaves.

  The nations not so blest as thee
    Must in their turns to tyrants fall;
  Whilst thou shalt flourish, great and free,
    The dread and envy of them all.
      Rule, Britannia! etc.

  Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
    More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
  As the loud blasts that tear the skies
    Serve but to root thy native oak.
      Rule, Britannia! etc.

  Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame;
    All their attempts to bend thee down
  Will but arouse thy generous flame,
    And work their woe—­but thy renown.
      Rule, Britannia! etc.

  To thee belongs the rural reign;
    Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
  All thine shall be the subject main,
    And every shore it circles thine.
      Rule, Britannia! etc.

  The Muses, still with Freedom found,
    Shall to thy happy coast repair;
  Blest Isle! with matchless beauty crowned,
    And manly hearts to guard the fair.
      Rule, Britannia, rule the leaves! 
      For Britons never will be slaves.

JAMES THOMSON.

* * * * *

THE BOWMAN’S SONG.

FROM “THE WHITE COMPANY.”

      What of the bow? 
    The bow was made in England: 
  Of true wood, of yew wood,
    The wood of English bows;
      So men who are free
      Love the old yew-tree
  And the land where the yew-tree grows.