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Title: Pro Patria
Author: Eric Mackay [
More Titles by Mackay]
AN ODE TO SWINBURNE.
["We have not, alack! an ally to befriend us,
And the season is ripe to extirpate and end us.
Let the German touch hands with the Gaul,
And the fortress of England must fall.
* * * * *
Louder and louder the noise of defiance
Rings rage from the grave of a trustless alliance,
And bids us beware, and be warn'd,
As abhorr'd of all nations and scorn'd."
A Word for the Nation, by A. C. Swinburne.]
I.
Nay, good Sir Poet, read thy rhymes again,
And curb the tumults that are born in thee,
That now thy hand, relentful, may refrain
To deal the blow that Abel had of Cain.
II.
Are we not Britons born, when all is said,
And thou the offspring of the knightly souls
Who fought for Charles when fears were harvested,
And Cromwell rose to power on Charles's head?
III.
O reckless, roystering bard, that in a breath
Did'st find the way to flout thy fathers' flag!
Is't well, unheeding what thy Reason saith,
To seem to triumph in thy country's death?
IV.
If none will speak for us, if none will say
How far thy muse has wrong'd us in its thought,
'Tis I will do it; I will say thee nay,
And hurl thee back the ravings of thy lay.
V.
We own thy prowess; for we've learnt by rote
Song after song of thine; and thou art great.
But why this malice? Why this wanton note
Which seems to come like lava from thy throat?
VI.
When Hugo spoke we owned his master-spell;
We knew he feared us more than he contemned.
He fleck'd with fire each sentence as it fell,
And tolled his rancours like a wedding-bell.
VII.
And we were proud of him, as France was proud.
Ay! call'd him brother,--though he lov'd us not;
And we were thrill'd when, ruthless from a cloud,
The bolt of death outstretch'd him for a shroud.
VIII.
Thou'rt great as he by fame and force of song,
But less than he as spokesman of his Land.
For thou hast rail'd at thine, to do it wrong,
And call'd it coward though its faith is strong.
IX.
England a coward! O thou five foot five
Of flesh and blood and sinew and the rest!
Is she not girt with glory and alive
To hear thee buzz thy scorn of all the hive?
X.
Thou art a bee,--a bright, a golden thing
With too much honey; and the taste thereof
Is sometimes rough, and somewhat of a sting
Dwells in the music that we hear thee sing.
XI.
Oh, thou hast wrong'd us; thou hast said of late
More than is good for listeners to repeat.
Nay, I have marvell'd at thy words of hate,
For friends and foes alike have deem'd us great.
XII.
We are not vile. We, too, have hearts to feel;
And not in vain have men remember'd this.
Our hands are quick at times to clasp the steel,
And strike the blows that centuries cannot heal.
XIII.
The sea-ward rocks are proud to be assail'd
By wave and wind; for bluster kills itself,
But rocks endure. And England has prevail'd
Times out of number, when her foes have failed.
XIV.
And once, thou know'st, a giant here was found,
Not bred in France, or elsewhere under sun.
And he was Shakespeare of the whole world round,
And he was king of men, though never crown'd.
XV.
He lov'd the gracious earth from east to west,
And all the seas thereof and all its shores.
But most he lov'd the home that he possess'd,
And, right or wrong, his country seem'd the best.
XVI.
He was content with Albion's classic land.
He lov'd its flag. He veil'd its every fault.
Yes! he was proud to let its honour stand,
And bring to light the wonders it had plann'd.
XVII.
Do thou thus much; and deal no further pain;
But sooner tear the tongue from out thy mouth,
And sooner let the life in thee be slain,
Than strike at One who strikes thee not again.
XVIII.
Thy land and mine, our England, is erect,
And like a lordly thing she looks on thee,
And sees thee number'd with her bards elect,
And will not harm the brow that she has deck'd.
XIX.
She lets thee live. She knows how rich and rare
Are songs like thine, and how the smallest bird
May make much music in the summer air,
And how a curse may turn into a prayer.
XX.
Take back thy taunt, I say; and with the same
Accept our pardon; or, if this offend,
Why then no pardon, e'en in England's name.
We have our country still, and thou thy fame!
[The end]
Eric Mackay's poem: Pro Patria
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