Английские песни. Крымская война
O for a good old English sword
Such as stalwart Cromwell bore,
To meet the Tzar and scatter afar
His boasts our strength before,
To tame the Tartor\’s barbarous horde
With the might we held of yore!
And a grasp to fit the Cromwell steel,
And a heart to drive the hand,
And a God-like hope whose righteous scope
Should bless our wrathful brand,
Till its lightning glance, like an angel\’s zeal,
Awaken\’d every land!
O for our valiant Ironsides,
Who waited but the word
Of One whom they knew and trusted to,
To bare the ready sword,
And leap, like bridegrooms tow\’rd their brides,
To the triumphs of the Lord!
O God, for the glorious victory
Crown\’d royal Cromwell\’s brow!
It is ours if we dare, it waits us there,
Through the smoke of the battle, now.
Right! that our lives may climb to thee
And merit thy laurel-bough.
And O, ere the sword resought its sheath,
To turn on the tyrants here,
And rive their bonds, like greenest wands,
With a blow forthright and sheer,
Till palsied Monarchy stay\’d its breath
And died o\’ the very fear.
Let England remember the days of yore,
Of her old heroic story,—
The days of Naseby and Marston-Moor,
And Worcester\’s crowning glory:
When the People\’s will and the People\’s right
Made a traitor monarch heed \’em;
When the Commons dared or speak or fight
For the sake of the common freedom.
Let England think of the men of old,
The chief of her hero story,—
Of Eliot brave, and Hampden bold,
And Cromwell England\’s glory:
When England\’s strength was a righteous sword,
Abroad or at home to defend her;
When glorious Milton\’s banner\’d word
Lent farthest lands her splendour.
Is England\’s heart grown senseless now?
Or her fame dim-eyed and hoary?
Or does she repent of the hero vow
Of the men of the days of glory?
That the Commonweal is a fearful word
To the slaves that arc trampling on her;
That a coward hand holds hack her sword,
And a traitor or baulks her honour.
May England retrieve her hero name
Resuming the olden story;
And, true to the pledge of her youthful fame,
Lead the world again to glory!
Let her sons advance in the teeth of Time,
Where their rights or the world\’s may lead \’em,
In the track, once mark\’d by a faith sublime
In God and in human freedom.
Awake, thou Sword of England\’s glory!
The day of strife dawns on thy grave:
Gleam again as in our old story!
Let thy flash light the brow of the slave!
Bright flash! light the brow of the slave.
Too long, O Sword! hast thou lam sleeping:
Leap forth from thy tomb to the fight!
The nations depend on thy might;
And their hopes are yet in thy keeping.
O Hope! thou must be strong:
O Life I maintain her song:
True Sword I flash, forth to smite down Wrong:
Our England for the Right !
Awake, thou Sword of England\’s glory!
The Cromwell wrath now summons thee:
Gleam again as in our old story!
Let thy flash light the path of the free!
Bright flash! light the path of the free.
No more, brave Sword ! shalt thou lie rusting:
Leap forth from thy sheath to the fight !
True honour again make thee bright;
And our truth have strength\’s own adjusting.
O Truth! thou shalt be strong:
Our lives maintain the song:
True Sword! flash forth to smite down Wrong:
Our England for the Right!
HEART AND WILL
Мелодия—Had I a heart for falsehood framed
Our England\’s heart is sound as oak;
Our English will is firm;
And through our actions Freedom spoke,
In History\’s proudest term:
When Blake was lord from shore to shore,
And Cromwell ruled the land,
And Milton\’s words were shields of power
To stay the oppressor\’s hand.
Our England\’s heart is yet as sound,
As firm our English will;
And tyrants, be they cowl\’d or crown\’d,
Shall find us fearless still.
And though our Vane be in his tomb,
Though Hampden\’s blood is cold,
Their spirits live to lead our doom
As in the days of old.
Our England\’s heart is stout as oak;
Our English will as brave
As when indignant Freedom spoke
From Eliot\’s prison grave.
And closing yet again with Wrong,
A world in arms shall see
Our England foremost of the Strong
And first among the Free.
TELL THE TZAR
Tell the Tzar of England\’s glories,
Let him learn the deeds of yore!
Tell him how we fought at Florez*
How we won at Azincour!
Tell him of the great Armada
Wreck\’d upon our English shore!
Say, for all our peaceful bearing,
England yet hath noble blood;
Dwarf\’d we may be, yet our dating
Mocks his height in field or flood:
We have men whoso hearts arc higher
Than the ebb of Cheapside mud.
Tell him Thor\’s unerring hammer
Fitteth yet an English hand;
Say, at our first battle-clamour
Arthur comes from fairy-land;
Alfred fronteth the invader,
Drake hath his far-reaching brand.
Mind him of our Portland glory,
Of the Nile and Trafalgar;
Say, such is the unfinish\’d story
Of the Book of English War;
Copenhagen unto Cronstadt,
Tell him, is not overfar.
Tell him, our unwaning glories
Ruin\’s self could never dim,
Though all England lay at Florez,
Though all Europe bay\’d with him:
He might then beware his triumph,—
Grenville\’s look is very grim.
*Where Grenville, in 1591, with his one ship, fought the whole Spanish fleet.
Мелодия— Martin Luther\’s Hymn
Great God! send down thy tardy Wrath,—-
The prostrate lands implore thee,—
To smite the tyrant in his path,
And clear thy way before thee.
Thy forked lightnings kiss the Slave,
Thy thunders rend the Coward\’s grave,
Till all our world adore thee!
Just God! vouchsafe thy saving ire,
The quick and dead to sever.
Baptize our feeble souls in fire—
The flame of dread endeavour.
Till Life shall like thy Angel stand,
One foot on sea, and one on land,
And swear by Truth for ever.
THE LAST BATTLE
Hurrah! hurrah! but the Kings ride fast;
They are riding fast and well:
For their lord the Devil—men call the Tzar —
Shouts for his satraps, mad for war:
And one and all
Haste to his call,
Hurrying thither from near and far.
Hurrah! hurrah! as the Kings ride past
Upon Wrong\’s high-road to Hell.
Hurrah! hurrah! for the trumpet-blast!
Hurrah for the battle-smell!
The Austrian Boy, and Prussia\’s Knave,
And Belgian Leopold—wise nor brave,
And the red Bourbon,
And the Skeleton
That sate by Tiber\’s glorious wave,
And Louis December,—they all ride fast:
God speed them safe to Hell!
Hurrah! hurrah! but the Kings ride fast
Upon Ruin\’s road to Hell.
Bat will none of their chivalry tighten rein
For the Lady Anarchs, not yet so fain
To hold the race
At a royal pace?
Will none of you stay for the Queen of Spain?
Or the Queen of —. Lord! but they gallop fast.
Could the Queens ride half so well!
Hurrah! but the Kings are riding fast:
But Vengeance rides as well.
Hurrah for the Pale Horse on their track!
Let them ride, and the reins hang never so slack,
And the rowels be red,
And the wind outsped,—
Yet Death outspeedeth the tempest-rack.
Hurrah! hurrah! as the Doom\’d ride past
To their lord, the Tzar, in Hell.
A NATIONAL HYMN
Мелодия—God save the King.
GOD! our England save.
God! who o\’er land and wave
Didst lead our sires —
Lead us, through glorious deeds,
Wherever Truth proceeds,
And crown each day with meeds
Of high desires.
God! who rulest right —
O God! whose word is might—
That word fulfil:
Teach us to do and dare,
Make England\’s life a prayer,
Her hope a zealous care
To work thy will.
Let our Republic stand
Ever at Fame\’s right hand,
Stalwart and free:
Give us heroic health:
So we, despising stealth,
May make our Commonwealth
Worthy of thee.
O Truth! our England bless:
So we. through every stress
Shall proudly march:
Gird thou our sheathless sword;
Speak thou our charging word;
Welcome the battle\’s lord
Under thy arch.
Honour! be thou our guide:
Lead thou our holy pride
Over the earth:
Till all the nations be,
Even as England, free;
Till the last tyrant flee
Before our worth.