Glorious men, with heads of eagles,
     Chopping arms, and cupboard lips;
     Warriors, hunters, keen as beagles,
     Mounted aye on horse or ships. 
     Active, being hungry creatures;
     Silent, having nought to say: 
     High they raised the lord of features,
     Saxon-worshipped to this day.

     XIV

     Hear its deeds, the great recital! 
     Stout as bergs of Arctic ice
     Once it led, and lived; a title
     Now it is, and names its price. 
     This our Saxon brothers cherish: 
     This, when by the worth of wits
     Lands are reared aloft, or perish,
     Sole illumes their lucre-pits.

     XV

     Know we not our wrongs, unwritten
     Though they be, Aneurin?  Sword,
     Song, and subtle mind, the Briton
     Brings to market, all ignored. 
     ’Gainst the Saxon’s bone impinging,
     Still is our Gododin played;
     Shamed we see him humbly cringing
     In a shadowy nose’s shade.

     XVI

     Bitter is the weight that crushes
     Low, my Bard, thy race of fire. 
     Here no fair young future blushes
     Bridal to a man’s desire. 
     Neither chief, nor aim, nor splendour
     Dressing distance, we perceive. 
     Neither honour, nor the tender
     Bloom of promise, morn or eve.

     XVII

     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.