Feeds the flame of thy quenchless name with light that lightens the
rayless years.

Dark as sorrow though night and morrow may lower with presage of
clouded fame,
How may she that of old bare thee, may Sidney's England, be brought
to shame?
How should this be, while England is? What need of answer beyond
thy name?


III

From the love that transfigures thy glory,
From the light of the dawn of thy death,
The life of thy song and thy story
Took subtler and fierier breath.
And we, though the day and the morrow
Set fear and thanksgiving at strife,
Hail yet in the star of thy sorrow
The sun of thy life.

Shame and fear may beset men here, and bid thanksgiving and pride
be dumb:
Faith, discrowned of her praise, and wound about with toils till
her life wax numb,
Scarce may see if the sundawn be, if darkness die not and dayrise
come.

But England, enmeshed and benetted