Part 7 — DISILLUSIONED.

I blush that I am England's son! Yet deemed her once the inviolate home Of matchless freedom nobly won: And little thought the hour would come, When, freer on an alien strand, My soul should scorn its native land. How mocks my ear the idle song That "Britons never shall be slaves" These Britons have been slaves so long To fraud and falsehood, fiends and knaves, They spurn true freedom's very name, And, self-duped, revel in their shame. O Albion! once the "Isle of Saints," The "Dower of Mary," what thy crime? Not sternest pen—not envy's—paints The annals of thy golden time In aught but glory. Whence the call For such a vengeance, such a fall? A tyrant's lust, a woman's pride, Could rend thee from the parent stem, And lay thee wither'd by the side Of barren branches—cursed with them! Save that thy head was too elate, What hadst thou done for such a fate? And oh! if thou hadst welcomed back The Christless worship of the Celt, Thy darkness were of hue less black— Were less like Egypt's, "to be felt"! 'Twere rather twilight of the morn: Another day might still be born. But no: more hellward yet thy fall! To turn and trample in her blood The Mother who had brought thee all Thou ever hadst of highest good: Behold a guilt—ay, deeplier dyed Than blinded Juda's deicide! And lo! a sleek usurper now— Meet tool of perjured royalty— Rears shameless her apostate brow: Her creed a sham, her claim a lie! The children's bread no more divine, A hireling throws them husks of swine. This vaunted church, they built her stout: And if by dint of fellest strife She failed to crush and strangle out Her foe's imperishable life, 'Twas not, I ween, from lack of force, Or craft of state, or base resource. 'Twas not that mildness ruled the day, And penal codes were voted down; And fair the question, fair the play From chair and pulpit, bench and crown; While forgery disdain'd to vie With slander in the dextrous lie. But more. As harlots aim to link A sister's ruin with their own So thou, my England, couldst not drink The "cup of devils" quite alone, But needs must press it on a shore The rival of thy light before. And Erin loathed it. There's a prayer That kept her then, and triumphs still. 'Twill take thee more than hate may dare To break the Patrick in her will: Though treachery was the lurking sin That sold the soil thou couldst not win. And what, at last, has hate achieved? For her, thy victim, such a name As points—and must, to be believed— To thy long parallel of shame: The Isle of Martyrs—peerless gem In Rome's thick-rubied diadem. Nor this alone. Not vainly fled Her patriot sons thy cruel hand; Not vainly to the West were led, Where the great future's chosen land O'er thralless ocean beacon'd fair, To find God's mission waiting there. Thus, England, has thy baffled rage But spread the faith it sought to slay: And lo! the nations see thee wage The bigot's combat ev'n to-day! They cry: "Her very pride is o'er: The lion in her wakes no more!" Fool-doubly fool! Art thou so strong No mightier arm can lay thee low? If patient heaven has linger'd long, This hour thy last—for weal or woe: And what 'twere penance to accord, Wilt thou but forfeit to the sword? Enough. My heart is too much thine To curse thee, though I blush to own: Too fondly prized thee as a shrine, Too proudly hailed thee as a throne: And, turning from the bitter truth, Finds sweetness in the dream of youth. For memory gathers in that dream A fragrance as of morning dew: The freshness of the grove and stream, When Nature woo'd me first, and knew So well to draw me to her breast, And wed me to her love's unrest. And if henceforth I twine my wreath To crown the land where now I sing, Content to pray in peace beneath The shadow of her eagle's wing; 'Tis not that charms of clime and scene Estrange me from thy gentler mien. It is that truth is chainless here, And swift her march from shore to shore; And little need her children fear For coming days—though clouded o'er; For God must shape a gracious plan Where truth is free, and man is man.[127]