Arise up, England, from the smoky cloud That covers thee, the din of whirling wheels: Not the pale spinner, prematurely bowed By his hot toil, alone the influence feels Of all this deep necessity for gain: Gain still; but deem not only by the strain Of engines on the sea and on the shore, Glory, that was thy birthright, to retain.
O thou that knewest not a conqueror, Unchecked desires have multiplied in thee, Till with their bat-wings they shut out the sun: So in the dusk thou goest moodily, With a bent head, as one who gropes for ore, Heedless of living streams that round him run.