(John Galsworthy’s “Moods, Songs and Doggerels”)
HOME of the free! Protector of the weak!
Shall We and this Great Gray Ally make sand
Of all a nation’s building green, and wreak
Our Winter Will on that unhappy land?
Is all our steel of soul dissolved and flown?
Have fumes of fear encased our heart of flame?
Are we with panic so deep-rotted down
In Self that we can feel no longer shame?
To league and steal a nation’s hope of youth?
Oh, Sirs! Is our Star merely cynical?
Is God reduced? That we must darken truth
And break our honor with this creeping fall?
Is freedom but a word—a flaring boast?
Is Self concern horizon’s utter sum?
If so—to-day let England die, and ghost
Through all her history to come!
If, Sirs, the faith of men be force alone,
Let us ring down—the farce is nothing worth!
If life be only prayers to things of stone,
Come, death, and let us, friends, go mocking forth!
But if there’s aught in all Time’s bloody hours
Of Justice, if the herbs of pity grow—
Oh, native land, let not those only flowers
Of God be desert-strewn and withered now.