22.04.2012, 07:53
Blessed Are The Strife-Makers
Blessing on him that in his goodly hate
Of England's breed, hath smitten and slain Her foes,
Her lust of pomp, Her sloth that aped repose,
The pride that cankered all Her queenly state,
Her youngling brawls and feuds of olden date,
Envy, the jade that pricked Her boys to blows,
Folly and ease, and all the gleaming shows
That lured Her vision from the eyes of fate.
Never was England great as at this hour
When grief hath lit Her soul, and o'er Her ways
The wings of God's dark angel hover and clang,
When pure by trial, She rises up in power
And on hell's serpent turns Her steadfast gaze
And steels Her arm to crush his loathly fang.
Blessing on him that in his goodly hate
Of England's breed, hath smitten and slain Her foes,
Her lust of pomp, Her sloth that aped repose,
The pride that cankered all Her queenly state,
Her youngling brawls and feuds of olden date,
Envy, the jade that pricked Her boys to blows,
Folly and ease, and all the gleaming shows
That lured Her vision from the eyes of fate.
Never was England great as at this hour
When grief hath lit Her soul, and o'er Her ways
The wings of God's dark angel hover and clang,
When pure by trial, She rises up in power
And on hell's serpent turns Her steadfast gaze
And steels Her arm to crush his loathly fang.