FOR THE EMPIRE.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

        It is no more place and party,
          It is no more begging votes;
        But the roaring of steam-packets,
        And a rushing of bluejackets
          And a rally of redcoats;
        For the Empire’s will is hearty,
          Thundered by united throats.

        We are sick of talk and treason,
          There is duty to be done;
        By the veteran in danger,
        And the lad who is a stranger
          Unto strife and shrinks from none;
        In the power of right and reason,
          Now all classes are but one.

        We have suffered and have yielded,
          Till we felt the burning shame;
        And long outrage and endurance
        Are our glory of assurance
          To begin the bloody game;
        By our honour are we shielded,
          In the might of England’s name.

        It is no more fume of faction,
          It is no more weary calls;
        We are strong in faith and steady,
        With the sword of Justice ready
          And our iron men and walls;
        Since the hour has struck for action,
          And red retribution falls.

        We have wrongs, which for redressing
          Cry aloud to God at last;
        It is woe to him who trifles
        When we speak across our rifles
          At the great and final cast;
        And we seek no other blessing
          Than the blotting out the past.

        We will brook no new denial,
          We will have no second tale;
        And we seek no sordid laurels,
        But here fight the ages’ quarrels
          And for freedom’s broadening pale—­
        Lo, an Empire on its trial,
          Hangs within the awful scale.

WANTED—­A CROMWELL.

BY F. HARALD WILLIAMS.

      O for an hour of Cromwell’s might
        Who raised an Empire out of dust,
      And lifted it to noontide light
        By simple and heroic trust;
      Whose word was like a swordsman’s thrust,
        And clove its way through crowned night. 
      We want old England’s iron stock,
        Hewn of the same eternal rock.

      Where is the man of equal part,
        To rule by right divine of power;
      With statesman’s head and soldier’s heart,
        And all the ages’ dreadful dower
      Brought to a bright and perfect flower—­
        From whom a nobler course may start? 
      We hear but faction’s fume and cry,
        With England in her agony.