Part 5

XVII

Tremendous:—as a lion’s show The grand menagerie paintings hide: Hear the drum beat, the trombones blow! The poor old Lion lies inside! . . .

XVIII

It is not England that they hear, But mighty Mammon’s pipers, trained To trumpet out his moods, and stir His sluggish soul: her voice is chained:

XIX

Almost her spirit seems moribund! O teach them, ’tis not she displays The panic of a purse rotund, Eternal dread of evil days,—

That haunting spectre of success Which shows a heart sunk low in the girths: Not England answers nobleness,— ‘Live for thyself: thou art not earth’s.’

XXI

Not she, when struggling manhood tries For freedom, air, a hopefuller fate, Points out the planet, Compromise, And shakes a mild reproving pate:

XXII

Says never: ‘I am well at ease, My sneers upon the weak I shed: The strong have my cajoleries: And those beneath my feet I tread.’

XXIII

Nay, but ’tis said for her, great Lord! The misery’s there! The shameless one Adjures mankind to sheathe the sword, Herself not yielding what it won:—

XXIV

Her sermon at cock-crow doth preach, On sweet Prosperity—or greed. ‘Lo! as the beasts feed, each for each, God’s blessings let us take, and feed!’

XXV

Ungrateful creatures crave a part— She tells them firmly she is full; Lost sheared sheep hurt her tender heart With bleating, stops her ears with wool:—

XXVI

Seized sometimes by prodigious qualms (Nightmares of bankruptcy and death),— Showers down in lumps a load of alms, Then pants as one who has lost a breath;

XXVII

Believes high heaven, whence favours flow, Too kind to ask a sacrifice For what it specially doth bestow;— Gives she, ’tis generous, cheese to mice.

XXVIII

She saw the young Dominion strip For battle with a grievous wrong, And curled a noble Norman lip, And looked with half an eye sidelong;

XXIX

And in stout Saxon wrote her sneers, Denounced the waste of blood and coin, Implored the combatants, with tears, Never to think they could rejoin.

XXX

Oh! was it England that, alas! Turned sharp the victor to cajole? Behold her features in the glass: A monstrous semblance mocks her soul!

XXXI