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Poem by Aubrey De Vere The Barons at Runnimede WITH what an awful grace those barons stood In presence of the king at Runnimede! Their silent finger to that righteous deed O’er which, with cheek forsaken of its blood, He hung, still pointing with stern hardihood, And brow that spake the unuttered mandate, “Read!” “Sign!” He glares round.—Never! though thousands bleed He will not! Hush,—low words, in solemn mood, Are murmured; and he signs. Great God! were these Progenitors of our enfeebled kind? Whose wordy wars are waged to thwart or please Minions, not kings; who stoop with grovelling mind To weigh the pauper’s dole, scan right by rule, And plunder churches to endow a school! Aubrey De Vere Aubrey De Vere's other poems: 1190 Views |
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