XXXIX.

Not these thy triumphs, England! Ne’er again Thy soul shall covet save of Locrian power And intellect the glory! Beaconing men To happiness be thine--still Freedom’s tower, Still making every scowling despot cower By labouring mind alone! let Justice wrest The axe from War, and give to man her dower. Plant, plant the olive pure from East to West, And bare not, save compelled, the sword ’gainst human breast!