Joined we are; a tide of races Rolled to meet a common fate; England clasps in her embraces Many: what is England’s state? England her distended middle Thumps with pride as Mammon’s wife; Says that thus she reads thy riddle, Heaven! ’tis heaven to plump her life. XVIII O my Bard! a yellow liquor, Like to that we drank of old— Gold is her metheglin beaker, She destruction drinks in gold. Warn her, Bard, that Power is pressing Hotly for his dues this hour; Tell her that no drunken blessing Stops the onward march of Power. XIX Has she ears to take forewarnings She will cleanse her of her stains, Feed and speed for braver mornings Valorously the growth of brains. Power, the hard man knit for action, Reads each nation on the brow. Cripple, fool, and petrifaction Fall to him—are falling now! MEN AND MAN I MEN the Angels eyed; And here they were wild waves, And there as marsh descried; Men the Angels eyed, And liked the picture best Where they were greenly dressed In brotherhood of graves. II Man the Angels marked: He led a host through murk, On fearful seas embarked; Man the Angels marked; To think without a nay, That he was good as they, And help him at his work. III Man and Angels, ye A sluggish fen shall drain, Shall quell a warring sea. Man and Angels, ye, Whom stain of strife befouls, A light to kindle souls Bear radiant in the stain. THE LAST CONTENTION I YOUNG captain of a crazy bark! O tameless heart in battered frame! Thy sailing orders have a mark, And hers is not the name. II For action all thine iron clanks In cravings for a splendid prize; Again to race or bump thy planks With any flag that flies. III Consult them; they are eloquent For senses not inebriate. They trust thee on the star intent, That leads to land their freight. IV And they have known thee high peruse The heavens, and deep the earth, till thou Didst into the flushed circle cruise Where reason quits the brow. V Thou animatest ancient tales, To prove our world of linear seed: Thy very virtue now assails, A tempter to mislead. VI But thou hast answer I am I; My passion hallows, bids command: And she is gracious, she is nigh: One motion of the hand! VII It will suffice; a whirly tune These winds will pipe, and thou perform The nodded part of pantaloon In thy created storm. VIII Admires thee Nature with much pride; She clasps thee for a gift of morn, Till thou art set against the tide, And then beware her scorn. IX Sad issue, should that strife befall Between thy mortal ship and thee! It writes the melancholy scrawl Of wreckage over sea. X