YOUNG ENGLAND--what is then become of Old

          Of dear Old England? Think they she is dead,

          Dead to the very name? Presumption fed

          On empty air! That name will keep its hold

          In the true filial bosom's inmost fold

          For ever.--The Spirit of Alfred, at the head

          Of all who for her rights watched, toiled and bled,

          Knows that this prophecy is not too bold.

          What--how! shall she submit in will and deed

          To Beardless Boys--an imitative race,                       

          The 'servum pecus' of a Gallic breed?

          Dear Mother! if thou 'must' thy steps retrace,

          Go where at least meek Innocency dwells;

          Let Babes and Sucklings be thy oracles.

          William Wordsworth