BY WILLIAM BLAKE
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon Englands mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On Englands pleasant pastures seen!
And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?
Bring me my Bow of burning gold:
Bring me my arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!
I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In Englands green & pleasant Land.
This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
England, My England
WHAT have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the song on your bugles blown,
Round the world on your bugles blown.
Where shall the watchful sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:-
'Take and break us: we are yours,
England, my own!
Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die
To the song on your bugles blown,
To the stars on your bugles blown!'
They shall call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mail'd hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies,
You could not know nor dread nor ease
Were the song on your bugles blown,
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chose daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-chief of the ancient Sword,
There's the menace of the Word
In the Song on your bugles blown,
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
By William Ernest Henley (1849 - 1903)
I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed---and gazed---but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
By William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850)
The English Country Lane
There is no path I'd rather roam,
than these narrow lanes about my home,
to leave my troubles far behind,
as I follow its track to places kind.
Past verges green and crops of gold,
up gentle hill, along valley fold.
past flower meadow, over silver stream,
as I lose my thoughts to natures dream.
Perhaps this is the path my ancestors walked,
where a lonely shepherd dreamt, where lovers talked,
I feel their spirits wander by,
as we journey unseen together, beneath summer sky.
A distant church spire, tall and grand,
beneath which villagers pray, for health of their land.
I join with them in a silent prayer,
for the beauty around me I see, I solemnly swear.
For along your path there is no wrong
just pretty flower, and bird of song
Natures beauty all around,
to fill my sight, to fill my sound.
Past English oak, through pastures new,
wherever you lead i shall follow you,
for you are my England, you are my home
and along your country lanes, my soul shall forever roam.
By Chris Plows ©
Memories of Winter on a Dorset Moor
O! To stroll again on Dorset's rugged moor
Of tranquil memories, vivid and so pure
Where endless precious hours were often spent
And not one isolated moment did I lament
Those momentary things inconsequential
But with each minute, view God's beauty - quintessential.
To feel the crisp of frost-covered heather beneath my sole
And heed the greens and purple where 'ere I stroll.
I felt not, bare-leg'd skin when rent by prickl'd gorse
Though ne'er once did I feel anger or remorse
At mother nature's loving, playful ways
That she bestowed upon me in my bygone days
O! To watch again grey smoke billow from the stack
Of toy-like engines with carriages, red and black
Chugging forward busily on tracks of steel
Creating visions haunting and surreal
Over restful, matted heath and moor-land stream
Onwards, towards their journeys into nowhere, it would seem
Cutting swathes across the isolated heath
Their vented steam a-rising from beneath
And country folk who ne'er the fare could pay
Yet with their eyes enjoy their regal splendour
Majestic as an artist's eye would render.
They, to pace the hour-long walk along the track
From their humble cottages and back
To hear the mournful voices of the plover
Exchanging anxious calls to one another
When the wat'ry moon begins to slowly wane
And icy patterns form upon the window-pane
The skaters' frolics cease upon the frozen pond
As Jack Frost puts aside his wintry, magic wand
And hoary mists lay still upon the ground
He disappears into the night without a sound
When the time arrived for all to cease their roaming
I would depart for the warmth of home amid the gloaming
By Harry E Wheeler ©