- Poem: SONNET.
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ENGLAND! that thou wast faint of heart we said,
Or inly thought; and that the wreath of bays
Drooped on thy brow, withered with length of days,
A dust-layered trophy of the age-long Dead:
We wronged thee much! --Myriads this month have bled
And died for thee, and though the end delays,
There's not one that a daunted spirit betrays
Nor that for thee life's last drop would not shed!
We deemed thy robes grown faded,--but fresh-dyed
We now behold them,--and their crimson dye
Is of thy sons' spilt blood, deep-hued and glowing:
O England! thou art comely in thy pride
And clad in glorious raiment, and thy going
Is as of one who goes to victory!