Classic Poem

There she sits in her Island-home,
—Peerless among her Peers!
And Liberty oft to her arms doth come,
—To ease its poor heart of tears.
Old England still throbs with the muffled fire
—Of a past she can never forget:
And again shall she herald the world up higher
—For there's life in the Old Land yet.

They would mock at her now, who of old looked forth
—In their fear, as they heard her afar;
But loud will your wail be, O Kings of the Earth!
—When the Old Land goes down to the war.
The Avalanche trembles, half-launched, and half-riven,
—Her voice will in motion set:
O ring out the tidings, wide-reaching as Heaven!
—There's life in the Old Land yet.

The old nursing Mother's not hoary yet,
—There is sap in her ancient tree:
She lifteth a bosom of glory yet,
—Through her mists, to the Sun and the Sea—
Fair as the Queen of Love, fresh from the foam,
—Or a star in a dark cloud set;
Ye may blazon her shame,—ye may leap at her name,—
—But there's life in the Old Land yet.

Let the storm burst, you will find the Old Land
—Ready-ripe for a rough, red fray!
She will fight as she fought when she took her stand
—For the Right in the olden day.
Rouse the old royal soul; Europe's best hope
—Is her sword-edge for Victory set!
She shall dash Freedom's foes down Death's bloody slope;
—For there's life in the Old Land yet.