Thou, from the first, unborn, undying love, Albeit we gaze not on thy glories near, Before the face of God didst breath and move, Though night and pain and ruin and death reign here. Thou foldest, like a golden atmosphere, The very throne of the eternal God: Passing through thee the edicts of his fear Are mellowed into music, borne abroad By the loud winds, though they uprend the sea, Even from his central deeps: thine empery Is over all: thou wilt not brook eclipse; Thou goest and returnest to His Lips Like lightning: thou dost ever brood above The silence of all hearts, unutterable Love. II To know thee is all wisdom, and old age Is but to know thee: dimly we behold thee Athwart the veils of evil which enfold thee We beat upon our aching hearts with rage; We cry for thee: we deem the world thy tomb. As dwellers in lone planets look upon The mighty disk of their majestic sun, Hallowed in awful chasms of wheeling gloom, Making their day dim, so we gaze on thee. Come, thou of many crowns, white-robèd love, Oh! rend the veil in twain: all men adore thee; Heaven crieth after thee; earth waileth for thee: Breathe on thy wingèd throne, and it shall move In music and in light o'er land and sea. III And now--methinks I gaze upon thee now, As on a serpent in his agonies Awestricken Indians; what time laid low And crushing the thick fragrant reeds he lies, When the new year warm breathèd on the earth, Waiting to light him with his purple skies, Calls to him by the fountain to uprise. Already with the pangs of a new birth Strain the hot spheres of his convulsèd eyes, And in his writhings awful hues begin To wander down his sable sheeny sides, Like light on troubled waters: from within Anon he rusheth forth with merry din, And in him light and joy and strength abides; And from his brows a crown of living light Looks through the thickstemmed woods by day and night XX =English War Song= Who fears to die? Who fears to die? Is there any here who fears to die He shall find what he fears, and none shall grieve For the man who fears to die: But the withering scorn of the many shall cleave To the man who fears to die. _Chorus_.--Shout for England! Ho! for England! George for England! Merry England! England for aye! The hollow at heart shall crouch forlorn, He shall eat the bread of common scorn; It shall be steeped in the salt, salt tear, Shall be steeped in his own salt tear: Far better, far better he never were born Than to shame merry England here. _Chorus_.--Shout for England! etc. There standeth our ancient enemy; Hark! he shouteth--the ancient enemy! On the ridge of the hill his banners rise; They stream like fire in the skies; Hold up the Lion of England on high Till it dazzle and blind his eyes.