Can you so fair and young forecast
The sure, the cruel day of doom;
Must I believe that you at last
Will fall, fall, fall down to the tomb?
Unclouded, fearless, gentle soul,
You greet the foe whose threats you hear;
Your lifted eyes discern the goal,
Your blood declares it is not near.
Feel deeply; toil through weal and woe,
Love England, love a friend, a bride.
Bid wisdom grow, let sorrow flow,
Make many weep when you have died.
When you shall die—what seasons lie
'Twixt that great Then and this sweet Now!
What blooms of courage for that eye,
What thorns of honour for that brow!
Oh mortal, too dear to me, tell me thy choice,
Say how wouldst thou die, and in dying rejoice?
Will you perish, calmly sinking
To a sunless deep sea cave,
Folding hands, and kindly thinking
Of the friend you tried to save?
Will you let your sweet breath pass
On the arms of children bending,
Gazing on the sea of glass,
Where the lovelight has no ending?
Or in victory stern and fateful,
Colours wrapt round shattered breast,
English maidens rescued, grateful,
Whispering near you, "Conqueror, rest;"
Or an old tune played once more,
Tender cadence oft repeated,
Moonlight shed through open door,
Angel wife beside you seated.