Summary

Portrait of E. Nesbit E. Nesbit Songs of love and empire

THE APPEAL
All summer-time you said:
Love has no need of shelter nor of kindness,
For all the flowers take pity on his blindness,
And lead him to his scented rose-soft bed.”
“He is a king,” you said.
“That I bow not the knee will never grieve him,
For all the summer-palaces receive him.”
But now Love has not where to lay his head.
“He is a god,” you said.
“His altars are wherever roses blossom.”
And summer made his altar of her bosom,
But now the altar is ungarlanded.
Take back the words you said:
Out in the rain he shivers broken-hearted
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of E. Nesbit E. Nesbit Songs of love and empire

Dreams of her days of honour, terrible days that are dead,
Days of the making of story, days when the sword was red,
When all her fate and her future hung on the naked blade,
When by the sword of her children her place in the world was made,
When Honour sounded the trumpet and Valour leapt to obey,
And Heroes bought us the Empire that statesmen would sell to-day.
England, wanton and weary, sunk in a slothful ease,
Has slain in her wars her thousands, but her tens of thousands in peace:
And the cowards grieve for her glory; their glory is in their shame
Source: Gutenberg

Portrait of E. Nesbit E. Nesbit Songs of love and empire

Is laid upon Honour’s shrine,
Wherever brave deeds are treasured and told,
In the tale of the deeds of yore
Like jewels of price in a chain of gold
Are the name and the fame he bore.
Wherever the track of our English ships
Lies white on the ocean foam,
His name is sweet to our English lips
As the names of the flowers at home;
Wherever the heart of an English boy
Grows big with a deed of worth,
Such names as his name have begot the same,
Such hearts will bring it to birth.
They say that his England, grown tired and old,
Lies drunk by her heavy hoard
Source: Gutenberg

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