The rust that paints their cities red

And makes their cast-iron idols reel:

The russet locust-swarm that’s spread

Upon their wilting crops of steel:—

This gift of our protecting Sire,

The Solar Christ, to purge the lands—

Is like the good Promethean fire

At which to warm our scatheless hands.

By it the human heart relumed,

Shall blaze once more with ruby light—

The strong shall seize it unconsumed,

The rest will crumble at its sight.

The brave from out its grudging crust

Will pull the treasure that it keeps—

Within the red sheath of the rust,

The white Excalibur that sleeps:—

One from its ash breathe new desire;

One from its embers snatch the Star

That glances with a triple fire

And tips the Trident of Cailar:—

One will blow flames, when nations drowse,

With which to burn prophetic lips:

And some find shares, with cruiser-prows

To heave the curling turf like ships.

Then, like Niagara set free,

Ride on, you fine Commando: vain

Were looking back, for all you’d see

Were ‘Charlies’ running for their train!

For none save those are worthy birth

Who neither life nor death will shun:

And we plough deepest in the Earth

Who ride the nearest to the Sun.