So great a charm is England's right,
That hearts enlarged together flow,
And each man rises up a knight

To work the evil-thinker's woe.
And, girt with ancient truth and grace,
We do our service and our suit,
And each can be, whate'er his race,

A Chandos or a Montacute.

Thou, Mistress, whom we serve to-day,
Bless the real swords that we shall wield,
Repeat the call we now obey

In sunset lands, on some fair field.
Thy flag shall make some Huron rock
As dear to us as Windsor's keep,

And arms thy Thames hath nerved shall mock The surgings of th' Ontarian deep.

The stately music of thy Guards,

Which times our march beneath thy ken, Shall sound, with spells of sacred bards,

From heart to heart, when we are men.

And when we bleed on alien earth,

We'll call to mind how cheers of ours Proclaimed a loud uncourtly mirth Amongst thy glowing orange bowers. And if for England's sake we fall, So be it, so thy cross be won, Fixed by kind hands on silvered pall, And worn in death, for duty done. Ah! thus we fondle Death, the soldier's mate, Blending his image with the hopes of youth To hallow all; meanwhile the hidden fate

Chills not our fancies with the iron truth. Death from afar we call, and Death is here,

To choose out him who wears the loftiest mien;

And Grief, the cruel lord who knows no peer, Breaks through the shield of love to pierce our Queen.

William Cory.

LXXVIII

A NATIONAL HYMN

To Thee, our God, we fly

For mercy and for grace;

O hear our lowly cry,

And hide not Thou Thy face!

O Lord, stretch forth Thy mighty hand,
And guard and bless our Fatherland!
Arise, O Lord of Hosts!

Be jealous for Thy Name,
And drive from out our coasts

The sins that put to shame!

O Lord, stretch forth Thy mighty hand,
And guard and bless our Fatherland!

The powers ordained by Thee

With heavenly wisdom bless,
May they Thy servants be,

And rule in righteousness!

O Lord, stretch forth Thy mighty hand,
And guard and bless our Fatherland!

Though vile and worthless, still,

Thy people, Lord, are we;

And for our God we will

None other have but Thee.

O Lord, stretch forth Thy mighty hand,
And guard and bless our Fatherland!

William Walsham How

LXXIX

A NATION'S WEALTH

O ENGLAND, thou hast many a precious dower;
But of all treasures it is thine to claim,
Prize most the memory of each sainted name,
That in thy realm, in field or hall or bower

Hath wrought high deeds or utter'd words of power—

Unselfish warrior, without fear or blame-
Statesman, with sleepless watch and steadfast aim
Holding his country's helm in perilous hour-
Poet, whose heart is with us to this day
Embalm'd in song-or Priest, who by the ark
Of faith stood firm in troublous times and dark.
Call them not dead, my England! such as they
Not were but are; within us each survives,
And lives an endless life in others' lives.

John Kells Ingram.

LXXX

THE MUSTER OF THE GUARDS

(1854)

LYING here awake, I hear the watchman's warning

'Past four o'clock-on this February morning; Hark! what is that?-there swells a joyous

shiver

Borne down the wind o'er the voices of the

river;

O'er the lordly waters flowing, 'tis the martial trumpets blowing,

"Tis the Grenadier Guards a-going-marching to the

war.

Yes there they go, through the February

morning,

To where the engine whistles its shrill and solemn

warning;

And the dull hoarse roar of the multitudes that

cheer

Falls ever and anon with a faint crash on the ear; 'Mid the tears of wives and mothers, and the prayers

of many others,

And the cheers of their brothers, they are marching to the war.

Cheer, boys, cheer! till you crack a thousand throats;

Cheer, boys, cheer! to the merry music's notes; Let the girls they leave behind them wave handkerchiefs and scarfs,

Let the hearty farewell ring through the echoing streets and wharfs;

Come-volley out your holloas-come, cheer the gallant fellows,

The gallant and good fellows, marching to the war.

Bridge of Waterloo!-letthespan of each proud arch Spring to the feet of the soldiers as they march; For the last time they went forth, your glorious name was borne

Where the bullets rained like hail among the

summer corn:

Ah! we'll not forget too soon the great Eighteenth of June,

While the British Grenadier's tune strikes up gaily for the war.

Bridge of Waterloo!-accept the happy omen, For the staunchest friends are wrought out of the bravest foemen:

Guards of Waterloo!-the troops whose brunt you bore

Shall stand at your right hand upon the Danube's

shore;

And Trafalgar's flags shall ride on the tall masts, side

by side,

O'er the Black Sea and the Baltic, to sweep the waves of war.

Die, die away, o'er the bridge and up the street,
Shiver of their music, echo of their feet:

Dawn upon the darkness, chilly day and pale;
Steady rolling engine, flash along the rail;

For the good ship waits in port, with her tackle trim

and taut,

And her ready funnels snort, till she bear them to

the war.

Far, far away, they are bound across the billow, Where the Russian sleeps uneasy on his last plundered pillow;

Where the Cross is stained with fraud by the giant evil-doer,

And the pale Crescent shines with a steady light

and pure;

And their coats will be dim with dust, and their bayonets brown with rust,

Ere they conquer, as we trust, in the mighty game of war.

Peace, peace, peace, with the vain and silly song, That we do no sin ourselves, if we wink at others'

wrong;

That to turn the second cheek is the lesson of the

Cross,

To be proved by calculation of the profit and the loss: Go home, you idle teachers! you miserable creatures! The cannons are God's preachers, when the time is ripe for war.

Peace is no peace, if it lets the ill grow stronger, Merely cheating destiny a very little longer; War, with its agonies, its horrors, and its crimes; Is cheaper if discounted and taken up betimes: When the weeds of wrath are rank, you must plough the poisoned bank,

Sow and reap the crop of Peace with the implements of war.

God, defend the right, and those that dare to claim it!

God, cleanse the earth from the many wrongs

that shame it!

Give peace in our time, but not the peace of trembling,

Won by true strength, not cowardly dissembling; Let us see in pride returning, as we send them forth in yearning,

Our Grenadier Guards from earning the trophies of the war.

Sir Franklin Lushington.