XXIX

     And in stout Saxon wrote her sneers,
     Denounced the waste of blood and coin,
     Implored the combatants, with tears,
     Never to think they could rejoin.

     XXX

     Oh! was it England that, alas! 
     Turned sharp the victor to cajole? 
     Behold her features in the glass: 
     A monstrous semblance mocks her soul!

     XXXI

     A false majority, by stealth,
     Have got her fast, and sway the rod: 
     A headless tyrant built of wealth,
     The hypocrite, the belly-God.

     XXXII

     To him the daily hymns they raise: 
     His tastes are sought:  his will is done: 
     He sniffs the putrid steam of praise,
     Place for true England here is none!

     XXXIII

     But can a distant race discern
     The difference ’twixt her and him? 
     My friend, that will you bid them learn. 
     He shames and binds her, head and limb.

     XXXIV

     Old wood has blossoms of this sort. 
     Though sound at core, she is old wood. 
     If freemen hate her, one retort
     She has; but one!—­’You are my blood.’

     XXXV

     A poet, half a prophet, rose
     In recent days, and called for power. 
     I love him; but his mountain prose —
     His Alp and valley and wild flower —

     XXXVI

     Proclaimed our weakness, not its source. 
     What medicine for disease had he? 
     Whom summoned for a show of force? 
     Our titular aristocracy!

     XXXVII

     Why, these are great at City feasts;
     From City riches mainly rise: 
     ’Tis well to hear them, when the beasts
     That die for us they eulogize!

     XXXVIII

     But these, of all the liveried crew
     Obeisant in Mammon’s walk,
     Most deferent ply the facial screw,
     The spinal bend, submissive talk.

     XXXIX

     Small fear that they will run to books
     (At least the better form of seed)! 
     I, too, have hoped from their good looks,
     And fables of their Northman breed; —

     XL

     Have hoped that they the land would head
     In acts magnanimous; but, lo,
     When fainting heroes beg for bread
     They frown:  where they are driven they go.

     XLI

     Good health, my friend! and may your lot
     Be cheerful o’er the Western rounds. 
     This butter-woman’s market-trot
     Of verse is passing market-bounds.

     XLII

     Adieu! the sun sets; he is gone. 
     On banks of fog faint lines extend: 
     Adieu! bring back a braver dawn
     To England, and to me my friend.

     November 15th, 1867.

     Time and sentiment