rural England, free of hatred, innocent and decent.
England dies as we
watch...but the English survive. The salt of the earth,
the very, very
God help their persecutors!
Thomas Babington Macaulay
To my true king I
offered, free from stain,
Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage
For him I threw lands, honours, wealth, away,
And one dear hope,
that was more prized than they.
For him I languished in a foreign
Grey - haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime;
Heard on Lavernia
Scargill's whispering trees,
And pined by Arno for my lovelier
Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep,
Each morning started
from the dream to weep;
Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave
resting - place I asked, an early grave.
O thou, whom chance leads to this
From that proud country which was once mine own,
white cliffs I never more must see,
By that dear language which I spake like
Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear
O'er English dust. A
broken heart lies here.