A Prayer For England.

    Ah, fair Lord God of Heaven, to whom we call, -
    By whom we live, - on whom our hopes are built, -
    Do Thou, from year to year, e'en as Thou wilt,
    Control the Realm, but suffer not to fall
    Its ancient faith, its grandeur, and its thrall!
    Do Thou preserve it, in the hours of guilt,
    When foemen thirst for blood that should be spilt,
    And keep it strong when traitors would appal.
    Uphold us still, O God! and be the screen
    And sword and buckler of our England's might,
    That foemen's wiles, and woes which intervene,
    May fade away, as fades a winter's night.
    Thine ears have heard us, and Thine eyes have seen.
    Wilt Thou not help us, Lord! to find the Light?

Eric Mackay

Eric Mackay, born on June 1, 1851, was a noted English poet whose work gained recognition in the late 19th century. He is best known for his sonnets and lyrical poetry, which were celebrated for their emotional depth and technical mastery. His most famous work, 'Love Letters of a Violinist,' was well-received during his lifetime. Mackay's contributions to English literature have been acknowledged for their artistic merit. He passed away on June 8, 1898.

Eric Mackay

Elëanore.

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

La Zingarella. (Italian Poems)

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

A Lover's Litanies - Fourth Litany. Gratia Plena.

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

Love Letters of a Violinist. Letter VIII. A Vision.

Eric Mackay, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Vigil

England! where the sacred flame
    Burns before the inmost shrine,
Where the lips that love thy name
    Consecrate their hopes and thine,
Where the banners of thy dead
Weave their shadows overhead,
Watch beside thine arms to-night,
Pray that God defend the Right.

Think that when to-morrow comes
    War shall claim command of all,
Thou must hear the roll of drums,
    Thou must hear the trumpet's call.
Now, before they silence ruth,
Commune with the voice of truth;
England! on thy knees to-night
Pray that God defend the Right.

Hast thou counted up the cost,
    What to foeman, what to friend?
Glory sought is Honour lost,
    How should this be knighthood's end?
Know'st thou what is Hatred's meed?
What the surest gain of gr...

Henry John Newbolt

Ad Finem

Britain!    Our Britain!    uprisen in the splendour
Of your white wrath at treacheries so vile;
Roused from your sleep, become once more defender
Of those high things which make life worth life's while!

Now, God be thanked for even such a wakening
From the soft dreams of peace in selfish ease,
If it but bring about the great heart-quickening,
Of which are born the larger liberties.

Ay, better such a rousing up from slumber;
Better this fight for His High Empery;
Better--e'en though our fair sons without number
Pave with their lives the road to victory.

But--Britain!    Britain!    What if it be written,
On the great scrolls of Him who holds the ways,
That to the dust the foe shall not be smitten
Till unto Him we pledge redeemèd days?--

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

An Ode To Englishmen.

I.

    I who have sung of love and lady bright
    And mirth and music and the world's delight,
    Behold! to-day, I sound a sterner note
    To move the minds of foemen when they fight.


II.

    Have I not said: There is no sweeter thing,
    And none diviner than the wedding-ring?
    And, all intent to make my meaning plain,
    Have I not kiss'd the lips of Love, the King?


III.

    Yea, this is so. But lo! to-day there comes
    The far-off sound of trumpets and of drums;
    And I must parley with the men of toil
    Who rise in ranks exultant from the slums.


IV.

    I must arraign each man; yea, all the host;
    And each true soul shall learn the least and most
    Of all his wrongs, ...

Eric Mackay

Coronation Poem And Prayer

The world has crowned a thousand kings:
    But destiny has kept
Her weightiest hour of kingly power
    To offer England's son.
The rising bell of Progress rings;
    And Truths which long have slept,
Like prophets strange, predicting change,
    Before Time's chariot run.

The greatest Empire of the Earth.
    Old England proudly stands.
Like arteries her Colonies
    Reach out from sea to sea.
She clasps all races in her girth;
    Her gaze the world commands;
And far and wide where strong ships ride,
    The British Flag floats free.

Oh, never since the stars began
    Their round of Cosmic law,
And souls evolved in ways unsolved,
    And kingdoms reached their prime
Has Destiny held out to Man
    A gift so full of awe,...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

What Have I Done For You

What have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Round the world on your bugles blown!

Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Down the years on your bugles blown?

Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:-
'Take and break us:    we are yours,
'England, my own!
'Life is good, and joy runs high
'Between English earth and sky:

William Ernest Henley

To The Reformers Of England

God bless ye, brothers! in the fight
Ye 're waging now, ye cannot fail,
For better is your sense of right
Than king-craft's triple mail.
Than tyrant's law, or bigot's ban,
More mighty is your simplest word;
The free heart of an honest man
Than crosier or the sword.
Go, let your blinded Church rehearse
The lesson it has learned so well;
It moves not with its prayer or curse
The gates of heaven or hell.
Let the State scaffold rise again;
Did Freedom die when Russell died?
Forget ye how the blood of Vane
From earth's green bosom cried?
The great hearts of your olden time
Are beating with you, full and strong;
All holy memories and sublime
And glorious round ye throng.
The bluff, bold men of Runnymede
Are with ye still in times like these;...

John Greenleaf Whittier