So raves the fieriest bard that lives, Whose pity for the tyrant’s thrall, Set to rich music’s rise and fall, So nobly rang one half forgives This recreant mud and gall. Hear, England, and be sad; for he Who peals this palinode to-day, The oppressor once could scathe and flay. Shame that his muse no more is free When England blocks the way. Thy spoils he gave to deck the Dutch; Thy noblest pride, most pure, most brave, To death forlorn and sure he gave; Nor now requires he overmuch Who bids thee dig thy grave. Dig deep the grave of shame, wherein Thy fame, thy commonweal, must lie; Put thought of aught save terror by, To strike and slay the slayer is sin; And Murder must not die. Bind fast the true man; loose the thief; Shamed were the land, the laws accursed, Were guilt, not innocence, amerced; And dark the wrong and sore the grief, Were tyrants too coerced. The fiercest cowards that ever skulked, The cowardliest hounds that ever lapped Blood, if their horde be tracked and trapped, And justice claimed their lives for mulct, Gnash teeth that flashed and snapped. Bow down for fear, then, England: bow, Lest worse befall thee yet; and swear That nought save pity, conscience, care For truth and mercy, moves thee now To call foul falsehood fair. So shalt thou live in shame, and hear The lips of all men laugh thee dead; The wide world’s mockery round thy head Shriek like a storm-wind; and a bier Shall be thine honour’s bed. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. _The Daily Telegraph._ April 29, 1887. ―――― Our sore no patriot hand must touch Even for healing: song shall rave Against the Statesman old, but brave Who dares――where youth, craven o’ermuch, Shrinks――the sharp strokes that save. Beware that grave of shame wherein His fame, his honour――by a lie Put with false lyric fervency―― You fain would thrust. His cause shall win, His glory shall not die. You voice their virulence――whose sheaf Of poisoned darts, for blood athirst, Fall blunt and harmless――_you_, the first Of lyric freemen, once the chief Of patriots? Fate accurst! Not thus had he, your Hugo, skulked ’Midst the traducer’s, limed and trapped By patriot shams; _you_ jingo-capped, Whose views of Freedom broadlier bulked Caste’s curs have snarled and snapped In chorus long; but will you bow To yelp at Freedom’s heels, and tear Her noblest champion? Have a care! The fading laurels round your brow Slander shall not make fair.