And liberty and love were ours, Home, and a brood of lusty sons, The long, North sunlight and the flow'rs, How could we think about the guns, The searchlights on a wintry cloud, The seamen stern and bold, Since we were hurrying with the crowd To rake the hills for gold? But it was glorious England Who scanned the threatening morn. To me the very name of her Is like a bugle-horn. J. E. MIDDLETON _From "Sea Dogs and Men at Arms"-- G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York. By permission of the Author_ TO BELGIUM IN EXILE (_May 19, 1915_) Land of the desolate, Mother of tears, Weeping your beauty marred and torn, Your children tossed upon the spears, Your altars rent, your hearths forlorn, Where Spring has no renewing spell, And Love no language save a long Farewell! Ah, precious tears, and each a pearl, Whose price--for so in God we trust Who saw them fall in that blind swirl Of ravening flame and reeking dust-- The spoiler with his life shall pay, When Justice at the last demands her Day. O tried and proved, whose record stands Lettered in blood too deep to fade, Take courage! Never in our hands Shall the avenging sword be stayed Till you are healed of all your pain, And come with Honour to your own again. SIR OWEN SEAMAN _Reprinted by permission of London "Punch"_ A CHANT OF LOVE FOR ENGLAND (This "Chant of Love", by a distinguished American poet, is a reply to Ernst Lissauer's notorious "Chant of Hate for England".) A song of hate is a song of Hell; Some there be that sing it well. Let them sing it loud and long, We lift our hearts in a loftier song: We lift our hearts to Heaven above, Singing the glory of her we love,-- _England!_ Glory of thought and glory of deed, Glory of Hampden and Runnymede; Glory of ships that sought far goals, Glory of swords and glory of souls! Glory of songs mounting as birds, Glory immortal of magical words; Glory of Milton, glory of Nelson, Tragical glory of Gordon and Scott; Glory transcendent that perishes not,-- Hers is the story, hers be the glory, _England!_