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"Shatter her beauteous breast ye may; The Spirit of England none can slay! Dash the bomb on the dome of Pauls, — Deem ye the fame of the Admiral falls? Pry the stone from the chancel floor, — Dream ye that Shakespeare shall live no more? Where is the giant shot that kills Wordsworth walking the old green hills? Trample the red rose on the ground, — Keats is Beauty while earth spins round! Bind her, grind her, burn her with fire, Cast her ashes into the sea, — She shall escape, she shall aspire, She shall arise to make men free: She shall arise in a sacred scorn, Lighting the lives that are yet unborn; Spirit supernal, splendor eternal, !"
H
Helen Gray Cone
