Classic Poem

Yet if a prayer could hasten destiny,
Were it not well in her bright hour to die —
The world at peace, or held in righteous fear! —
Man's pride, and strength, — her England's matchless spear?

She should have died hereafter! no, not now,
Not thus have made our cup with tears o'erflow.
The holy cause had triumph'd, — England's car
Came, rich with trophies of her mightiest war;
Monarchs were in her train; above her van
Blazed the deliver'd cross, the ark of man;
And she stood forth, first, fairest stood, to hail
That day; — at once the victor's cheek was pale,
The triumph was eclipsed; was she the price?
The daughter vow'd? the bright, sad sacrifice?
Ev'n in the hour when England's parent eye
Turn'd from its glory on her, — must she die!