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NATIONALITY, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Each nation master at its own fireside


Each nation master at its own fireside
O ENGLAND, thou hast many a precious dower;
The claim is just, and so one day ' twill be;
But of all treasures it is thine to claim ,
But a wise race the time of fruit will bide,
Prize most the memory of each sainted name,
Nor pluck th' unripen'd apple from the tree.
That in thy realm, in field or hall or bower
Hath wrought high deeds or utter'd words of power

Unselfish warrior, without fear or blame

Statesman, with sleepless watch and steadfast aim
Holding his country's helm in perilous hour
Poet, whose heart is with us to this day
Embalm'd in song-or Priest, who by the ark
Of faith stood firm in troublous times and dark.
Call them not dead, my England! such as they
Not were but are; within us each survives,
And lives an endless life in others' lives.






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