To win the wreath that he beyond the bar
Bare not away athwart the bland sea's breast.

II.

And sooth the soft sheen of that deathless bay
Gleams glamorous! Amorous was I in my day,
Clamorous were Gath's goose-critics. But my fire,
Chastened from To-phet-fumes, burns purer, higher;
My thoughts on courtier-wings _might_ make their way
Did my brow bear the laurels all these desire.

III.

For I, to the proprieties reconciled.
Who hymned Dolores, sing the "weanling child."
At "home-made treacle" I made mocking mirth;
That was before my better self had birth.
At virtue's lilies and languors then I smiled,
But Hertha's _not_ thine only goddess, O Earth!

IV.

For surely brother, and master, and lord, and king,
Though vice's roses and raptures did not spring
In thy poetic garden's trim parterre;
Though thou wert fond of sunshine and sweet air,
More than of kisses, that burn, and bite, and sting;
Some living love our England for thee bare.