Il Santo

By Henry John Newbolt, Sir

Alas! alas! what impious hands are these? They have cut down my dark mysterious trees, Defied the brooding spell That sealed my sacred well, Broken my fathers' fixed and ancient bars, And on the mouldering shade Wherein my dead were laid Let in the cold clear aspect of the stars. Slumber hath held the grove for years untold: Is there no reverence for a peace so old? Is there no seemly awe For bronze-engraven law, For dust beatified and saintly name? When they shall see the shrine Princes have held divine, Will they not bow before the eternal flame? Vain! vain! the wind of heaven for ages long Hath whispered manhood, "Let thine arm be strong! Hew down and fling away The growth that veils decay, Shatter the shrine that chokes the living spring. Scorn hatred, scorn regret, Dig deep and deeper yet, Leave not the quest for word of saint or king. "Dig deeper yet! though the world brand thee now, The faithful labour of an impious brow May for thy race redeem The source of that lost stream Once given the thirst of all the earth to slake. Nay, thou too ere the end Thy weary knee mayst bend And in thy trembling hands that water take."