O England! in thine hour of need,
When Faith’s reward and valor’s meed
Is death or glory,
When Faith indites, with biting brand,
Clasped in each warrior’s stiffening hand,
A nation’s story;
Though weak our hands, which fain would clasp
The warrior’s sword with warrior’s grasp
On victory’s field;
Yet turn, O mighty Mother! turn
Unto the million hearts that burn
To be thy shield.
Thine equal justice, mercy, grace
Have made a distant alien race
A part of thee.
‘Twas thine to bid their souls rejoice
When first they heard the living voice
Of Liberty.
Unmindful of their a ancient name,
And lost to honor — glory — fame,
And sunk in strife,
Thou found them, whom thy touch hath made
Men, and to whom thy breath conveyed
A nobler life.
They, whom thy love hath guarded long;
They, whom thy care bath rendered strong
In love and faith,
Their heartstrings round thy heart entwine,
They are, they ever will be, thine
In life — in death.
(Nizamat Jung)
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