Or thus of old men feigned, and then did fear,
  Then straight crowd forth the great ones of the sky
In flashing flame at strife to reach more near. 
  The little children of Infinity,
They next look down as to report them ‘Here,’
  From deeps all thoughts despair and heights past high,
Speeding, not sped, no rest, no goal, no shore,
Still to rush on till time shall be no more.

’Loved vale of Evesham, ’tis a long farewell,
  Not laden orchards nor their April snow
These eyes shall light upon again; the swell
  And whisper of thy storied river know,
Nor climb the hill where great old Montfort fell
  In a good cause hundreds of years ago;
So fall’n, elect to live till life’s ally,
The river of recorded deeds, runs dry.

This land is very well, this air,’ saith he,
  ’Is very well, but we want echoes here. 
Man’s past to feed the air and move the sea;
  Ages of toil make English furrows dear,
Enriched by blood shed for his liberty,
  Sacred by love’s first sigh and life’s last fear,
We come of a good nest, for it shall yearn
Poor birds of passage, but may not return,

Spread younger wings, and beat the winds afar. 
  There sing more poets in that one small isle
Than all isles else can show—­of such you are;
  Remote things come to you unsought erewhile,
Near things a long way round as by a star. 
  Wild dreams!’ He laughed, ’A sage right infantile;
With sacred fear behold life’s waste deplored,
Undaunted by the leisure of the Lord.

Ay go, the island dream with eyes make good,
  Where Freedom rose, a lodestar to your race;
And Hope that leaning on her anchor stood
  Did smile it to her feet:  a right small place. 
Call her a mother, high such motherhood,
  Home in her name and duty in her face;
Call her a ship, her wide arms rake the clouds,
And every wind of God pipes in her shrouds.

Ay, all the more go you.  But some have cried
  “The ship is breaking up;” they watch amazed
While urged toward the rocks by some that guide;
  Bad steering, reckless steering, she all dazed
Tempteth her doom; yet this have none denied
  Ships men have wrecked and palaces have razed,
But never was it known beneath the sun,
They of such wreckage built a goodlier one.

God help old England an’t be thus, nor less
  God help the world.’  Therewith my mother spake,
’Perhaps He will! by time, by faithlessness,
  By the world’s want long in the dark awake,
I think He must be almost due:  the stress
  Of the great tide of life, sharp misery’s ache,
In a recluseness of the soul we rue
Far off, but yet—­He must be almost due.

God manifest again, the coming King.’ 
  Then said my father, ’I beheld erewhile,
Sitting up dog-like to the sunrising,
  The giant doll in ruins by the Nile,
With hints of red that yet to it doth cling,
  Fell, battered, and bewigged its cheeks were vile,
A body of evil with its angel fled,
Whom and his fellow fiends men worshipped.