Whenever I visit England, I will inevitably call to mind this very nearly transcendent prose-poem of William Shakespeare:
This royal throne of kings,
This sceptered isle,
This earth of majesty,
This seat of Mars,
This other Eden,
This demi-paradise,
This fortress built by nature herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men,
This little world.
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house
Against the envy of less happier lands;
This blessed plot,
This earth,
This realm,
This England.
Renowned for deeds as far from home
For Christian service and true chivalry
As unto the Holy Sepulchre itself, this land
Of such dear souls,
This dear, dear land:
This England.
3 comments:
My book club just began reading A Passion for the Impossible which is the story of Lilias Trotter. It begins with a short history of the progress of Victorian England (Railway Age and the Industrial Era)and the 'town planning' of John Nash. We read these first few pages aloud tonight and then I came home and read your lastest entries. Enjoy your trip!
Truth, Order , Beauty
Amber
But it does go on:
This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world, 60
Is now leas’d out,—I die pronouncing it,—
Like to a tenement, or pelting farm:
England, bound in with the triumphant sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege 64
Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With inky blots, and rotten parchment bonds:
That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
"It does go on..." Thanks, George and Alan. Shakespeare the sublime poet and prophetic tragedian.
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