Up to a noble anger’s height,
And, flamed on by the Fates, not shrink, but grow more bright,
    That swift validity in noble veins, 320
    Of choosing danger and disdaining shame,
        Of being set on flame
    By the pure fire that flies all contact base
But wraps its chosen with angelic might,
        These are imperishable gains,
  Sure as the sun, medicinal as light,
  These hold great futures in their lusty reins
And certify to earth a new imperial race.

X

        Who now shall sneer? 
    Who dare again to say we trace 330
    Our lines to a plebeian race? 
        Roundhead and Cavalier! 
Dumb are those names erewhile in battle loud;
Dream-footed as the shadow of a cloud,
    They flit across the ear: 
That is best blood that hath most iron in ’t,
To edge resolve with, pouring without stint
    For what makes manhood dear. 
    Tell us not of Plantagenets,
Hapsburgs, and Guelfs, whose thin bloods crawl 340
Down from some victor in a border-brawl! 
    How poor their outworn coronets,
Matched with one leaf of that plain civic wreath
Our brave for honor’s blazon shall bequeath,
  Through whose desert a rescued Nation sets
Her heel on treason, and the trumpet hears
Shout victory, tingling Europe’s sullen ears
  With vain resentments and more vain regrets!

XI

    Not in anger, not in pride,
    Pure from passion’s mixture rude 350
    Ever to base earth allied,
    But with far-heard gratitude,
    Still with heart and voice renewed,
  To heroes living and dear martyrs dead,
The strain should close that consecrates our brave. 
  Lift the heart and lift the head! 
    Lofty be its mood and grave,
    Not without a martial ring,
    Not without a prouder tread
    And a peal of exultation:  360
    Little right has he to sing
    Through whose heart in such an hour
    Beats no march of conscious power,
    Sweeps no tumult of elation! 
    ’Tis no Man we celebrate,
    By his country’s victories great,
  A hero half, and half the whim of Fate,
    But the pith and marrow of a Nation
    Drawing force from all her men,
    Highest, humblest, weakest, all, 370
    For her time of need, and then
    Pulsing it again through them,
  Till the basest can no longer cower,
  Feeling his soul spring up divinely tall,
  Touched but in passing by her mantle-hem. 
  Come back, then, noble pride, for ’tis her dower! 
    How could poet ever tower,
    If his passions, hopes, and fears,
    If his triumphs and his tears,
    Kept not measure with his people? 380
Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds and waves!