A Poet's Loyalty
Not to a queen or king
Is the deep inmost spirit in me loyal,
But to the waves that sing
Round English shores, and fling
Against our fortressed rocks their mantles royal.
A crowned head in my sight
Hath little import: flower-crowned hills have more;
Our cliffs and surges white,
Or blue waves soft and bright
That ripple gently on a sunlit shore.
No prince or ruler holds
The free land of my heart: it dwells amid
The heather-purpled wolds
And in the green woods' folds,—
Yea, 'mid the mountain-steeps my heart is hid.
England herself I own
For queen, sweet with the laughter of her sea
And grand on mountain-throne,—
She royal, she alone,
Is sovereign of my heart eternally.
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