Monday, 23 July 2007

St George poem- First Installment Part 4

The end of the age weighs heavily
On Progress' noble sons;
Too scared are they to look behind
Or look ahead, nor have they time
To ponder the plight that plagues their kind
Or, for that matter, anyone's.

In this great malaise of the soul
Now and again one sees
Unfurled that great and English flag
Fluttering in the breeze.

Its meaning now is long forgot,
As obsolete as thatch,
Yet ever and anon one sees it
At a football match.

And some there are who know its name,
That of theman who came
From Lydda- one can hear it screamed
Quite loudly at the game.

But names belong to men, and this
To quite a noble man
WHo never saw dear England's soil
Nor on its fields did stand.

And though we know he prays for them,
No Briton did he know,
And English were barbarians
When he lived long ago.

Then London was a Roman town,
Still half-uncivilised;
But Rome was growing harder
And its borders over-sized.

And though its legions still held out
Against the German horde
The hearts of some were cold and dumb
And fought against the Lord.

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