England

This poem was written by the young Vincent Barrington during his years at Eton, in 1895.

(Inspired by my unfinished novel "Summer of 1900")


O England, land of ancient fame,
Whose banners cross the distant sea,
Whose poets gave the world a name
For thought, for reason, liberty
What have thy fathers left to thee,
That thou shouldst guard with slavish fear?
What has become of what was free,
That once made all the world draw near?
Thy cities rise in smoke and stone,
Thy engines thunder night and day,
Yet in the shadow of thy throne
The hungry child is sent away.
In London’s East, where wealth is near,
Where golden windows brightly shine,
A child grows old before his year
To earn the bread that should be mine.
And far beyond thy northern shore,
Where India beneath the sun
Has fed thy ships with golden ore,
What justice hath thy empire done?
Thou callest conquest “civilisation”,
And chains “the order of the crown”;
Yet tell me, what is exaltation
If built upon the fallen down?
Thy lords sit proudly in their halls
And speak of blood as sacred right;
They raise their names above the walls
And call the darkness “law” and “might”.
They say that God ordained their place,
That some were born to rule mankind,
But where, in Heaven’s boundless grace,
Hast thou found such a law designed?
Did God, when first He breathed the breath
Of life into the human frame,
Set lord beside the gates of death
And bid the beggar bear his name?
Did He divide the human soul
By ancient title, wealth, or land?
Or is it man who made the whole,
And called his own invention grand?
I cannot bow to such a creed,
Nor call oppression holy law;
For Christ, I think, would see the deed
Before the splendour of the throne.
And if the priest should bless the chain
That binds the weak beneath the strong,
Then let him answer, not to men,
But to the God whom he has wronged.
O England, once so proud to seek
The light beyond the ancient night,
Why dost thou now refuse to speak
When Reason calls thee towards the light?
Why dost thou cling to dying forms,
To laws grown old, to hollow names,
While all around thee break the storms
That shall consume thy ancient frames?
The world moves on. The years depart.
New thoughts arise, new voices call.
Yet thou wouldst make thyself a heart
That beats beneath a tombstone wall.
Thou fear'st the thought that dares ask “Why?”,
The hand that would unfasten chains;
But nothing born beneath the sky
Can live forever unchanged.
And yet I love thee, England still.
Not for thy crown, nor wealth, nor sword;
Not for the empire at thy will,
Nor for the titles thou hast stored.
I love thee for the age when men
Dared question kings, and priests, and fate,
When thought was young, and hope was then
A thing no throne could regulate...