The fight was off the Frenchman’s land, We forced them back upon their strand, For we fought till not a stick could stand Of the gallant _Arethusa_. And now we’ve driven the foe ashore Never to fight with the Britons more, Let each fill his glass To his fav’rite lass; A health to our captain and officers true, And all that belong to the jovial crew On board of the _Arethusa_. _Prince Hoare._ BLAKE XXXII JERUSALEM IN ENGLAND England, awake! awake! awake! Jerusalem thy sister calls! Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death, And close her from thy ancient walls? Thy hills and valleys felt her feet Gently upon their bosoms move: Thy gates beheld sweet Zion’s ways; Then was a time of joy and love. And now the time returns again: Our souls exult; and London’s towers Receive the Lamb of God to dwell In England’s green and pleasant bowers. And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England’s mountain green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England’s pleasant pastures seen? And did the Countenance Divine Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here Among these dark satanic mills? Bring me my bow of burning gold! Bring me my arrows of desire! Bring me my spear: O clouds, unfold! Bring me my chariot of fire! I will not cease from mental fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, Till we have built Jerusalem In England’s green and pleasant land. _William Blake._ WORDSWORTH XXXIII ON LANDING IN ENGLAND Here, on our native soil, we breathe once more. The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, that sound Of bells; those boys who in yon meadow-ground In white-sleeved shirts are playing; and the roar Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore;-- All, all are English. Oft have I looked round With joy in Kent’s green vales; but never found Myself so satisfied in heart before. Europe is yet in bonds; but let that pass, Thought for another moment. Thou art free, My Country! and ’tis joy enough and pride For one hour’s perfect bliss, to tread the grass Of England once again, and hear and see, With such a dear Companion at my side. _William Wordsworth._ XXXIV DESTINY It is not to be thought of that the Flood Of British freedom, which, to the open sea Of the world’s praise, from dark antiquity Hath flowed, ‘with pomp of waters, unwithstood!’ Roused though it be full often to a mood Which spurns the check of salutary bands, That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands Should perish; and to evil and to good Be lost for ever--In our halls is hung Armoury of the invincible Knights of old: We must be free or die, who speak the tongue That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold Which Milton held. In everything we are sprung Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold.