Then the warrior, battle-tried, touched the sounding glee-wood: Straight awoke the harp's sweet note; straight a song uprose, Sooth and sad its music. Then from hero's lips there fell A wonder-tale, well told.
This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war,
Milton, thou shouldst be living at this hour. England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters; altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower