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Alfred Austin - The Golden Age
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 Goths of the gutter, Vandals of the slum,
 Thieves and Reformers, come! Barbarians, come!
  Before your might let rails and rules be hurled,
 And sweep Civilisation from the world!

 Nor now, alas, do Commoners alone
 To private ends the public weal postpone.
 Those too, whom worth ancestral plants on seats
 High above where all vulgar Clamour beats,
 With paltry fear to their clipped ermine cling,
 And shrink from right, lest right should ruin bring.
  The Peers stand firm; the Commons disagree.
 The Peers be—well, it now is close on three.
 By five, a world of reasons will be found.
 Throw Jonas over, or the ship`s aground.
 You know the fury of the hand that steers;
 And what were Britain with no House of Peers?
 Would Primogeniture its fall survive,
 Or even Property be kept alive?
 Let Herbert fume, or frantic Cecil chafe,
 Better a deal to choose the side that`s safe;
 Bow to the will of Finlen and his hordes,
 And still thank Heavën for a House of Lords!
  Thus may the British breast exult to think.
 That noble names can sell ignoble ink;
 That ill—got gains, if deftly spent, unlock
 Birth`s choicest circles to the ambitious smock;
 That Dives foul mounts fine Aristo`s stairs,
 If but Aristo Dives` plunder shares;
 And half Debrett urbanely flocks to White`s,
 To back the boor who saves them from the kites.
  His son succeeds him. `Make the son a Peer.
 Why not? His income`s eighty thousand clear.
 New blood is wanted. Here`s the very stuff.
 Besides, he wields the county vote.` Enough.
 But hold! there`s Cato. `Cato! are you sane?
 Why, Cato`s means but one small hearth sustain.
 Ennoble Cato, you`ll have Peers for life,
 Or else forbid the man to take a wife.
  He can`t maintain the necessary state,
 And would you have a poor name legislate?
 No, Dives` son`s the very man we need.
 What says the Crown?` The Crown! Of course, Agreed.
 And the young fool, enriched by parent knaves,
 From Ruin`s jaws our Constitution saves!

 Is there no path of honour for the great,
 No sound and clean salvation for the State?
 Must we for ever fly to shifts like this,
 And trust to Gold to save us from the abyss?
 Must honours old by new—got wealth be vamped,
 And Valour`s stock by plutocrats be swamped?
 Back to your lands, base sons of splendid sires!
 From spendthrift squares back to your native shires!
  Back, back from Baden, and leave Homburg`s shades
 To dazzling Jews and mercenary jades.
 Leave London`s round of vulgar joys to those
 Who seek in such from base pursuits repose.
 Cease to contend with upstart Wealth`s parade,
 To wring your lands to vie with tricks of trade;
 And, proudly spurning Glitter`s transient lies,
 At least be honest, if you can`t be wise!
 Worship your household gods, and spend at home
 The solid earnings of the generous loam.
  Delve, fence, and drain; the dripping waste reclaim;
 With spreading woodlands multiply your fame.
 Yours let it be to screen the reverent hind,
 Who loves your presence, `gainst the frost and wind;
 Scorning to count the profit, raise his lot;
 Lure the shy Graces to his lowly cot;
 Be, one and all, acknowledged, far and wide,
 Patriarchs and patterns of the country side.
 And whether demagogues shall rise or fall,
 A Cleon mount, or Boänerges bawl,
 True to yourselves and native duty, thus
 Save this poor England by being virtuous!

 And you, Sir, hope of this once famous isle,
 Round whom its halo plays, its favours smile,
  Hark to the Muse, which, poised on Candour`s wings,
 Flouts the base crowd, but scorns to flatter kings.
 Hark, while she tells you, nor her counsel spurn,
 From giddy Pleasure`s gilded toys to turn;
 That not from minions opulent or coarse
 Do Princes gain their lustre and their force;
 That Reverence anchors not in deep carouse,
 And that a Crown fits only kingly brows!
 Fired by each bright example, shun the shade,
 Where Scandal best can ply her noxious trade.
 Learn from your pious Father how to share
 With hands, too lonely now, a Kingdom`s care.
 Be by your fair loved Consort`s pattern moved,
 And like your virtuous Mother, stand approved;
  Do for this England all the Sceptre can,
 And be at least a stainless gentleman.
 Be this too much, you well may live to find
 That firmest Thrones can fail the weak and blind,
 And, though no Samson, sharing half his fate,
 Pull down the pillars of a mighty State!

 Whilst our domestic fortunes thus obey
 All—searching Gold`s demoralising sway,
 We hug the limits of our puny shore,
 And Glory knows our once great name no more.
  First are we still in every bloodless fray,
 Where piles of gold adventurous prows repay;
 But when flushed Honour sets the world on fire,
 We furl our sails and to our coasts retire;
 And, basely calm whilst outraged nations bleed,
 Invent new doctrines to excuse our greed.
 When gallant Denmark, now the spoiler`s prey,
 Flashed her bright blade, and faced the unequal fray,
 And, all abandoned both by men and gods,
 Fell, faint with wounds, before accursèd odds,—
 Where, where was England`s vindicating sword,
 Her promised arm, to stay the invading horde;
  Bid the rude German drop his half—clutched spoil,
 And scare the robber from ancestral soil?
 The fair young Dane, beloved by every Grace,
 And all the Virtues shining in her face,
 Who, more an angel than a princess deemed,
 Withal was even sweeter than she seemed,
 With noisy throats we summoned o`er the foam,
 And with cheap cheers escorted to her home.
 But when with streaming eye and throbbing breast
 She, pious child, her loving fears confessed,
 And, leagued with Honour`s voice and Valour`s ire,
 Prayed us to save her country and her sire,
 We turned away, and opulently cold,
 Put back our swords of steel in sheaths of gold!

 And yet what sandy base doth Gold afford,
 Though crowned by Law, and fenced round by the Sword,
 Learn from that Empire which, a scorn for aye,
 Grew in a night and perished in a day!
 Helped by a magic name and doubtful hour,
 See the Adventurer scale the steeps of Power.
 Upon him groups of desperate gamesters wait,
 To snatch their profit from a sinking State.
 Folly, and Fate which Folly still attends,
 Conspire to shape and expedite their ends.
  The Hour, the Man are here! No pulse? No breath?
 Wake, Freedom, wake! In vain! She sleeps like Death.
 The impious hands, emboldened by her swoon,
 Choke in the night, and slay her in the noon!
 Then, when vain crowds with dilatory glaive
 Rush to avenge the life they would not save,
 The prompt conspirators with lavish hand
 Fling their last pieces to a pampered band,
 Bribe cut—throat blades Vengeance` choked ways to hold,
 And bar the avenues of rage with gold!

 Then mark how soon, amid triumphant hymns,
 The Imperial purple girds the blood—stained limbs.
  The perjured hands a golden sceptre gain,
 A crown of gold screens the seared brow of Cain,
 And golden eagles, erst of simpler ore,
 Assert the Caesar, and his rod restore.
 See round his throne Pomp`s servile tributes swell,
 Not Nero knew, e`er Rome to ruin fell,
 Far from his feet the lust of glitter spread,
 And the vain herd on Splendour`s follies fed!
 Nor they alone, the shallow, base, and gay,
 Bend to this Idol with the feet of clay:
 Statesmen and soldiers kneel with flattering suit,
 Kings are his guests, e`en queens his cheeks salute;
 Senates extol him, supple priests caress,
 And even thou, O Pius, stoop`st to bless!
  And the World`s verdict, ever blind as base,
 Welcomes the `Second Saviour` of the race!

 And yet how weak this Empire girt with gold
 Did prove to save when Battle`s torrents rolled,
 Have we not seen in ruin, rout, and shame,
 Burnt deep in Gaul`s for ever broken fame?
 What then availed her courts of pomp and pride,
 What her bright camps with glittering shows allied?
 What, in that hour, the luxury which passed
 To soldiers` lips the sybarite repast?
 Did all her gold suffice, when steel withstood
 Her stride, to make her rash, vain challenge good?
 Behold her Chief, in comfort longwhile slung,
 By War`s rough couch and random fare unstrung
 His vaunted Leaders, who to Power had mown
 Their path with swords that propped a venal Throne,
 Brandishing rival blades, his brain confound,
 While still, but sure, the solid foe press round.
 See her soft sons, whom arms enervate lead,
 Spurn the long marches which to victory speed,
 And, fondly deeming Science served by Wealth
 Will snatch the fight at distance and by stealth,
 Smitten with fear at Valour`s downright face,
 And taught swift limbs in Flight`s ignoble chase!
 See one, see all, before the Victor fleet,
 Then lay their swords, submissive, at his feet!

 O hapless France! e`en then insurgent ire
 Had your soiled scutcheon lifted from the mire,
  Placed the bright helm on Honour`s front once more,
 And laurels reaped more lasting than of yore,
 Had not rich ease your manhood`s marrow stole,
 And gold emollient softened all your soul.
 O, what a sight—a sight these eyes beheld—
 Her fair green woods by the invader felled;
 Her fields and vineyards by the Teuton trod,
 Those she once smote encamped upon her sod;
 Her homes, in dread, abandoned to the foe,
 Or saved from rapine by obsequience low;
 Her cities ransomed, provinces o`erawed,
 Her iron strongholds wrenched by force or fraud;
  Her once proud Paris grovelling in the dust,
 And—crowning irony, if lesson just—
 The grasping victor, loth to quit his hold,
 Coaxed slowly homewards o`er a bridge of gold!

 Is there no warning, England, here, for thee?
 Or are Heaven`s laws balked by a strip of sea?
 Are thy foundations, Albion, so approved,
 Thou canst behold such downfall all unmoved?
  Have we not marked how this Briarean Gold
 Doth all our life and energies enfold?
 And as our practice, so our doctrines too—
 We shape new ethics for our vices new;
 Our sires forswear, our splendid Past defame,
 And in high places glory in our shame!
 Hear our loud—tinkling Tribunes all declare
 Once lavish England hath no blood to spare,
 No gold to spend; within her watery wall
 She needs to roll and wallow in it all.
 Doth towering Might some poor faint Cause oppress,
 They bid her turn, impartial, from distress;
 Indulge her tears, but hide her ire from sight,
 Lest a like doom her angry front invite.
  And when this craven caution fails to save
 Her peaceful fortunes from the braggart glaive,
 They bid her still be moral and be meek,
 Hug tight her gold, and turn the other cheek.
 Her very sons, sprung from her mighty loins,
 We aliens make, to save some paltry coins;
 With our own hands destroy our Empire old,
 And stutter, `All is lost, except our gold!`
 With languid limbs, by comfortable fire,
 We see our glories, one by one, expire;
 A Nelson`s flag, a Churchill`s flashing blade,
 Debased to menials of rapacious Trade;
  Lost by a Cardwell what a Wellesley won,
 And by a Gladstone Chatham`s world undone!
 Pale, gibbering spectres fumbling at the helm,
 Whilst dark winds howl, and billowy seas o`erwhelm.
 Yet deem you, England, that you thus will save,
 Even your wealth from rapine or the grave?
 Will your one chain of safety always hold,
 Or `silver streak` for ever guard your gold?
 If through long slumbrous years the ignoble rust
 Of selfish ease your erst bright steel encrust,
  When Storm impends, you vainly will implore
 The Gods of Ocean to protect your shore.
 Bribed by the foe, behold Britannia stand
 At Freedom`s portals with a traitress hand,
 Help the Barbarian to its sacred hold,
 Then, like Tarpeia, sink oppressed with Gold!

 Perish the thought! O, rather let me see
 Conspiring myriads bristling on the sea,
 Our tranquil coasts bewildered by alarms,
 And Britain, singly, face a World in arms!
 What if a treacherous Heaven befriend our foes?
 Let us go down in glory, as we rose!
 And if that doom—the best that could betide—
 Be to our Fame by envious Fate denied,
  Then come, primeval clouds and seasons frore,
 And wrap in gloom our luckless land once more!
 Come, every wind of Heaven that rudely blows,
 Plunge back our Isle in never—ending snows!
 Rage, Eurus, rage! fierce Boreas, descend!
 With glacial mists lost Albion befriend!
 E`en of its name be every trace destroyed,
 And Dark sit brooding o`er the formless Void!
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