And Anarchy, the ghastly birth, Lay dead earth upon the earth; The Horse of Death tameless as wind Fled, and with his hoofs did grind To dust the murderers thronged behind. A rushing light of clouds and splendour, A sense awakening and yet tender Was heard and felt – and at its close These words of joy and fear arose As if their own indignant Earth Which gave the sons of England birth Had felt their blood upon her brow, And shuddering with a mother’s throe Had turnèd every drop of blood By which her face had been bedewed To an accent unwithstood, – As if her heart had cried aloud: ‘Men of England, heirs of Glory, Heroes of unwritten story, Nurslings of one mighty Mother, Hopes of her, and one another; ‘Rise like Lions after slumber In unvanquishable number, Shake your chains to earth like dew Which in sleep had fallen on you – Ye are many – they are few.’
