A Prayer For England

Ah, fair Lord God of Heaven, to whom we call, -
        By whom we live, - on whom our hopes are built, -
        Do Thou, from year to year, e'en as Thou wilt,
        Control the Realm, but suffer not to fall
        Its ancient faith, its grandeur, and its thrall!
        Do Thou preserve it, in the hours of guilt,
        When foemen thirst for blood that should be spilt,
        And keep it strong when traitors would appal.
        Uphold us still, O God! and be the screen
        And sword and buckler of our England's might,
        That foemen's wiles, and woes which intervene,
        May fade away, as fades a winter's night.
        Thine ears have heard us, and Thine eyes have seen.
        Wilt Thou not help us, Lord! to find the Light?

  By Eric Mackay 

The Olive Branch

Sadly I walk'd within the field,
To see what comfort it would yield;
And as I went my private way,
An olive-branch before me lay;
And seeing it, I made a stay,
And took it up, and view'd it; then
Kissing the omen, said Amen;
Be, be it so, and let this be
A divination unto me;
That in short time my woes shall cease,
And love shall crown my end with peace.

Robert Herrick

A Wren's Nest

Among the dwellings framed by birds
In field or forest with nice care,
Is none that with the little Wren's
In snugness may compare.

No door the tenement requires,
And seldom needs a laboured roof;
Yet is it to the fiercest sun
Impervious, and storm-proof.

So warm, so beautiful withal,
In perfect fitness for its aim,
That to the Kind by special grace
Their instinct surely came.

And when for their abodes they seek
An opportune recess,
The hermit has no finer eye
For shadowy quietness.

These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls,
A canopy in some still nook;
Others are pent-housed by a brae
That overhangs a brook.

There to the brooding bird her mate
Warbles by fits his low clear song;
And by the busy streamlet both
Are sung to all day long.

Or in sequestered lanes they build,
Where, till the flitting bird's return,
Her eggs within the nest repose,
Like relics in an urn.

But still, where general choice is good,
There is a better and a best;
And, among fairest objects, some
Are fairer than the rest;

This, one of those small builders proved
In a green covert, where, from out
The forehead of a pollard oak,
The leafy antlers sprout;

For She who planned the mossy lodge,
Mistrusting her evasive skill,
Had to a Primrose looked for aid
Her wishes to fulfill.

High on the trunk's projecting brow,
And fixed an infant's span above
The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest
The prettiest of the grove!

The treasure proudly did I show
To some whose minds without disdain
Can turn to little things; but once
Looked up for it in vain:

'Tis gone, a ruthless spoiler's prey,
Who heeds not beauty, love, or song,
'Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved
Indignant at the wrong.

Just three days after, passing by
In clearer light the moss-built cell
I saw, espied its shaded mouth;
And felt that all was well.

The Primrose for a veil had spread
The largest of her upright leaves;
And thus, for purposes benign,
A simple flower deceives.

Concealed from friends who might disturb
Thy quiet with no ill intent,
Secure from evil eyes and hands
On barbarous plunder bent,

Rest, Mother-bird! and when thy young
Take flight, and thou art free to roam,
When withered is the guardian Flower,
And empty thy late home,

Think how ye prospered, thou and thine,
Amid the unviolated grove
Housed near the growing Primrose-tuft
In foresight, or in love.

William Wordsworth

On The Sight Of Spring

How sweet it us'd to be, when April first
    Unclos'd the arum-leaves, and into view
    Its ear-like spindling flowers their cases burst,
    Beting'd with yellowish white or lushy hue:
    Though manhood now with such has small to do,
    Yet I remember what delight was mine
    When on my Sunday walks I us'd to go,
    Flower-gathering tribes in childish bliss to join;
    Peeping and searching hedge-row side or woods,
    When thorns stain green with slow unclosing buds.
    Ah, how delighted, humming on the time
    Some nameless song or tale, I sought the flowers;
    Some rushy dyke to jump, or brink to climb,
    Ere I obtain'd them; while from hasty showers
    Oft under trees we nestled in a ring,
    Culling our "lords and ladies."--O ye hours!
    I never see the broad-leav'd arum spring
    Stained with spots of jet; I never see
    Those dear delights which April still does bring,
    But memory's tongue repeats it all to me.
    I view her pictures with an anxious eye,
    I hear her stories with a pleasing pain:
    Youth's wither'd flowers, alas! ye make me sigh,
    To think in me ye'll never bloom again.

John Clare

Spring's Nosegay

The prim daisy's golden eye
    On the fallow land doth lie,
    Though the Spring is just begun:
    Pewits watch it all the day,
    And the skylark's nest of hay
    Is there by its dried leaves in the sun.

    There the pilewort, all in gold,
    'Neath the ridge of finest mould,
    Blooms to cheer the ploughman's eye:
    There the mouse his hole hath made,
    And 'neath the golden shade
    Hides secure when the hawk is prowling by.

    Here's the speedwell's sapphire blue:
    Was there anything more true
    To the vernal season still?
    Here it decks the bank alone,
    Where the milkmaid throws a stone
    At noon, to cross the rapid, flooded rill.

    Here the cowslip, chill with cold,
    On the rushy bed behold,
    It looks for sunshine all the day.
    Here the honey bee will come,
    For he has no sweets at home;
    Then quake his weary wing and fly away.

    And here are nameless flowers,
    Culled in cold and rawky hours
    For my Mary's happy home.
    They grew in murky blea,
    Rush fields and naked lea,
    But suns will shine and pleasing Spring will come.

John Clare

My Pretty Rose Tree

   

A flower was offered to me,
    Such a flower as May never bore;
    But I said "I've a pretty rose tree,"
    And I passed the sweet flower o'er.

    Then I went to my pretty rose tree,
    To tend her by day and by night;
    But my rose turned away with jealousy,
    And her thorns were my only delight.

William Blake

Men of England

Men of England, wherefore plough

For the lords who lay ye low?

Wherefore weave with toil and care

The rich robes your tyrants wear?

Wherefore feed and clothe and save

From the cradle to the grave

Those ungrateful drones who would

Drain your sweat—nay, drink your blood?

Wherefore, Bees of England, forge

Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,

That these stingless drones may spoil

The forced produce of your toil?

Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,

Shelter, food, love’s gentle balm?

Or what is it ye buy so dear

With your pain and with your fear?

The seed ye sow, another reaps;

The wealth ye find, another keeps;

The robes ye weave, another wears;

The arms ye forge, another bears.

Sow seed—but let no tyrant reap:

Find wealth—let no imposter heap:

Weave robes—let not the idle wear:

Forge arms—in your defence to bear.

Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells—

In hall ye deck another dwells.

Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see

The steel ye tempered glance on ye.

With plough and spade and hoe and loom

Trace your grave and build your tomb

And weave your winding-sheet—till fair

England be your Sepulchre.

Percy Bysshe Shelley