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264 GRACE E. TOLLEMACHE
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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 !
— Grace E. Tollemache.
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