The Sixteenth Century; A poet of the time of the new learning.
The Seventeenth Century; a puritan as meaning the soul of man freed and self depending.
The Eighteenth Century; a seaman as standing for the militant England.
The Nineteenth Century; an economist as for England the market of the world.
The Twentieth Century; a child with a wand of gold.
They then move in a majestic figure across the stage to a triumphal music, singing the hymn following, after which they pass out.
THE HYMN.
Ours is the hymn of England, grey jewel of the seas,
Ours is the hymn of England, mother of strength and ease,
Where the ocean mist is blown in the sun through orchards of lichened trees.
Mother of fame and fable, music and myth and song,
She who has rocked the cradle of the knowledge of right and wrong,
And of justice reaching out on the earth, stern, steadfast and strong.
Ours is the hymn of England, home of college & hall,
Home of tower and castle, church and the grey church wall,
Cloistered garth and ingled hearth & the beauty that binds them all.
The rose is born for England, yea and her heroes prove
How her old exalted story is young with the flush of love,
Her mantle of waters about her, her sky of birds above.
The swift ships speed for England, and as they cleave the sea
They bear with them the burden of her strenuous majesty,
The flag of her past flies at the mast, her future is yet to be.
The great white cliffs of England stand to the Channel main,
The firm white cliffs of England, beaten with wind and rain,
That thousands of seamen have watched & loved as they drew home again.
The dear green fields of England in the misty morning light,
Wake with a myriad dimple, purple, yellow & white,
Blessing the inner eye of thought with the gift of second sight.
Ours is the hymn of her painters, and the long illumined roll
Of her men of thought and science, honour and self-control;
Purcell is of her players, Shakespeare speaks to her soul.
Ours is the song of her builders, of them that have set in stone
The mark of a deep endeavour, their own & more than their own,
And the silent might of the toil that lives and loves and bides unknown.
Ours is the hymn of England, and far in the future we
Chaunting the hymn of England and her great destiny,
Fortell the love we love so well and the power we forsee.
The stage then darkens, and there shows upon the scene, but indistinctly, a Will-o'-the-wisp-like light, as it moves to and fro swinging to the rhythm of the music there shall be heard behind the scene the following song:
THE SONG OF THE IMPS OF PROGRESS.
Everything passes,
Everything flows,
Shrivel the grasses,
Withers the rose,
Withers the rose as it blesses the tree,
And the wreck of its leafage and perfume is left as it ceases to be.
Everything changes,
Everything dies,
Passion estranges,
Poesy flies,
Poesy flies and the sound of the dart
As it wings to the wound is alive with the pain that it brings—it shall smart.
At this point the Imps enter, but it being dark they are hardly seen. It shall, however, be evident that they follow the Will-of-the-wisp light, hovering after it with backs bent and arms outstretched as if catching and groping for something they cannot attain:
Follow illusion,
Tumble and toss,
We bring confusion
Crabbed and cross,
Cross as the racket and rage we provoke,
And the end when you've got it, we give it you—smoke, only smoke!
Ours to dissever,
Ours to destroy,
Sorrow is ever
The sequel of joy,
Sorrow that squats on the crown of the king,
And that lurks in the whips and the stings & the pangs and the scorpions we bring.
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