Be thou our friend forever more,
In ties of common anguish bound,
That we may know the sons we bore
Lie not in unregarded ground!
CHILDREN OF ENGLAND YET TO BE
CHILDREN, children, yet unborn,
Yours the blossom, theirs the thorn,
Yours the sweetness, theirs the dust;
That your eyes might see the light,
That love fold you safe and warm,
Fared they to a dawnless night,
Bowed they to a bitter storm!. . . .
I can see you at your play
In the dewy fields of morn
Dancing through the scented hay,
And the sheaves of yellow corn;
There are roses on your check,
There is laughter in your eyes
As you romp at hide-and-seek,
Where the lark and throstle rise,
With your merry ways and wise,
Little children yet unborn.
Out across the drifted sands
With your friends, the fairy-folk,
I can see you linking hands—
Ring-a-rosy round the oak.
Where the lark his rapture tells,
Swinging up into the blue,
De tie for gove the all you,
Housed with peace among the flowers
In the haunts that once we knew.
In far happier times than ours,
With no thought of battle-smoke,
Or of British hearts that broke.
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