Pax Britannica
Behind her rolling ramparts England lay,
Impregnable, and girt by cliff-built towers,
Weaving to peace and plenty, day by day,
The long-drawn hours.
In peace Spring freed her flocks and showered her grain,
Summer sate smiling under peaceful leaves,
And Autumn piled on the unwarlike wain
Her sickled sheaves.
And white-winged keels flew fluttering to her shore,
Laden with Eastern bale or Southern fleece,
And from the fields of far-off labour bore
The spoils of Peace.
Then, seeing Her within her waves so blest,
The jealous nations, panoplied alike,
Said, ``Look, She wears no armour on her breast:
What if we strike?''
But She, of their base greed and armed array
Haughtily heedless, moated by her main,
Still across ocean ploughed her peaceful way
In strong disdain.
Then each to other muttered, ``Now at last
Her splendour shall be ours, and we shall slake
Our envy. She is pillowed on her Past,
And will not wake.''
Slowly as stirs a lion from his bed,
Lengthens his limbs, and crisps his mane, She rose,
Then shook out all her strength, and, flashing, said,
``Where are my foes?''
Thus to herself She did herself reveal,
Swiftly yet calmly put her armour on,
And, round her Empire sentinelled in steel,
Like morning shone!
From field and forge there thronged embattled hosts,
And that one struck the anvil, this the lyre,
And from the furnaces of war her coasts
Were fringed with fire.
Dazed and dismayed, they veiled their futile vow;
Some fain would be her friend, and some would nurse
Their hate till they could curb the might that now
They could but curse.
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poem by Alfred Austin
Added by Poetry Lover
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