O Lily of the King, low lies thy silver wing, And long has been the hour of thine unqueening; And thy scent of Paradise on the night-wind spends its sighs, Nor any take the secrets of its meaning. O Lily of the King, I speak a heavy thing, O patience, most sorrowful of daughters! Lo, the hour is at hand for the troubling of the land, And red shall be the breaking of the waters. Sit fast upon thy stalk, when the blast shall with thee talk, With the mercies of the King for thine awning, And the Just understand that thine hour is at hand, Thine hour at hand with power in the dawning. When the nations lie in blood, and their kings a broken brood, Look up, O most sorrowful of daughters! Lift up thy head and hark what sounds are in the dark, For His feet are coming to thee on the waters. O Lily of the King, I shall not see that sing, I shall not see the hour of thy queening! But my Song shall see, and wake like a flower that dawn-winds shake, And sigh with joy the odours of its meaning. O Lily of the King, remember then the thing That this dead mouth sang; and thy daughters, As they dance before His way; sing there on the Day What I sang when night was on the waters! TO THE ENGLISH MARTYRS BY FRANCIS THOMPSON Rain, rain on Tyburn tree, Red rain a-falling; Dew, dew on Tyburn tree, Red dew on Tyburn tree, And the swart bird a-calling. The shadow lies on England now Of the deathly-fruited bough: Cold and black with malison Lies between the land and sun; Putting out the sun, the bough Shades England now! The troubled heavens so wan with care, And burdened with the earth’s despair Shiver a-cold; the starved heaven Has want, with wanting men bereaven. Blest fruit of the unblest bough, Aid the land that smote you, now! That feels the sentence and the curse Ye died if so ye might reverse. When God was stolen from out man’s mouth, Stolen was the bread; then hunger and drouth Went to and fro; began the wail, Struck root the poor-house and the jail, Ere cut the dykes, let through that flood, Ye writ the protest with your blood; Against this night--wherein our breath Withers, and the toiled heart perisheth,-- Entered the _caveat_ of your death. Christ in the form of His true Bride, Again hung pierced and crucified, And groaned, “I thirst!” Not still ye stood,-- Ye had your hearts, ye had your blood; And pouring out the eager cup,-- “The wine is weak, yet, Lord Christ, sup.” Ah, blest! who bathed the parched Vine With richer than His Cana-wine, And heard, your most sharp supper past: “Ye kept the best wine to the last!”