I turn with grave thought To this child of the ages, And to all that is writ In Time’s hidden pages. Shall young Howards or Guelphs, In the days that shall come, Wander forth, seeking bread, Far from England and home? Shall they sail to new continents, English no more, Or turn—strange reverse— To the old classic shore? Shall fair locks and blue eyes, And the rose on the cheek, Find a language of pity The tongue cannot speak— “Not English, but angels?” Shall this tale be told Of Romans to be As of Romans of old? Shall they too have monkeys And music? Will any Try their luck with an engine Or toy spinning-jenny? Shall we too be led By that mirage of Art Which saps the true strength Of the national heart? The sensuous glamour, The dreamland of grace, Which rot the strong manhood They fail to replace; Which at once are the glory, The ruin, the shame, Of the beautiful lands And ripe souls whence they came? Oh, my England! oh, Mother Of Freemen! oh, sweet, Sad toiler majestic, With labour-worn feet! Brave worker, girt round, Inexpugnable, free, With tumultuous sound And salt spume of the sea, Fenced off from the clamour Of alien mankind By the surf on the rock, And the shriek of the wind, Tho’ the hot Gaul shall envy, The cold German flout thee, Thy far children scorn thee, Still thou shalt be great, Still march on uncaring, Thy perils unsharing, Alone, and yet daring Thy infinite fate. Yet ever remembering The precepts of gold That were written in part For the great ones of old— “Let other hands fashion The marvels of art; To thee fate has given A loftier part, To rule the wide peoples, To bind them to thee.” By the sole bond of loving, That bindeth the free, To hold thy own place, Neither lawless nor slave; Not driven by the despot, Nor trick’d by the knave. But these thoughts are too solemn. So play, my child, play, Never heeding the connoisseur Over the way, The last dances of course; Then with scant pause between, “Home, sweet Home,” the “Old Hundredth,” And “God Save the Queen.” See the poor children swarm From dark court and dull street, As the gay music quickens The lightsome young feet. See them now whirl away, Now insidiously come, With a coy grace which conquers The squalor of home. See the pallid cheeks flushing With innocent pleasure At the hurry and haste Of the quick-footed measure. See the dull eyes now bright, And now happily dim, For some soft-dying cadence Of love-song or hymn. Dear souls, little joy Of their young lives have they, So thro’ hymn-tune and song-tune Play on, my child, play.