Like Henry James, she was an expatriate, though not even under the argument of our aloofness from Europe between 1914 and 1917 did she, like him, bear testimony to her love for England by becoming naturalized. Still an ardent American, her answering love flowed back to us as in 1898, when she dedicated one of the most breathlessly beautiful of her poems to The Outbound Republic. There had come the challenge to enter world counsels and world clashes. We heard, and she heard it with us: “As the clear mid-channel wave, That under a Lammas dawn Her orient lanthorn held Steady and beautiful Through the trance of the sunken tide, Sudden leaps up and spreads Her signal round the sea: _Time, time! Time to awake; to arm; To scale the difficult shore!_” This was first published anonymously and one reader, at least, instantly detected her hand. It took no special acumen. Lines were never written more intensely charged with personal quality. And if we think her heart, in its love for England, ever grew alien to us, we may go back to the last of the twelve stately London Sonnets: In the Docks. What a banner she waved there of an implied creed, a passionate belief! “Where the bales thunder till the day is done, And the wild sounds with wilder odors cope; Where over crouching sail and coiling rope, Lascar and Moor along the gangway run; Where stifled Thames spreads in the pallid sun, A hive of anarchy from slope to slope; Flag of my birth, my liberty, my hope, I see thee at the masthead, joyous one! O thou good guest! so oft as, young and warm, To the home-wind thy hoisted colors bound, Away, away from this too thoughtful ground Sated with human trespass and despair, Thee only, from the desert, from the storm, A sick mind follows into Eden air.” Our inherited traditions were like wine to her, our lapses drained her soul; and as it was in 1890, when that sonnet was written, so it continued to be through the years when our star sank, in 1914, to be so long in rising. In 1915, she wrote: “I have been disappointed over our country’s official attitude: there should be no ‘neutrality’ of opinion where rights and wrongs are as plain as the nose on one’s face!” And in February, 1917: “‘Come, let your broadsides roar with ours!’ as Tennyson says. Only I never shall get over the unexpected and staggering vision of my own idealistic land having behaved for nearly three solid years in this selfish, provincial way, with the masterly vision of a village schoolmaster who sees as far as his village pump, and not one inch beyond it.”