我英格兰，我的母亲，水上的战士。万民的建造者，人类的创造者-你还有空闲留给缪斯女神吗?你注意到铁匠在锻造韵律吗?被喧嚷震耳欲聋，你怎能听呢。这个派系是刺耳的，Demos是响亮的。拉撒路，饥饿，威胁潜水;工党的巨人查夫斯在他的控制。然而，歌手们没有放弃他们的锻造;仍然在生活的铁砧上锻造他们的韵律。炉膛里那醉意的脸庞依然发光，铁匠的气息烧焦了他们的眉毛。 Yea, and thou hear'st them? So shall the hammers Fashion not vainly Verses of gold. II Lo, with the ancient Roots of man's nature, Twines the eternal Passion of song. Ever Love fans it, Ever Life feeds it, Time cannot age it; Death cannot slay. Deep in the world-heart Stand its foundations, Tangled with all things, Twin-made with all. Nay, what is Nature's Self, but an endless Strife toward music, Euphony, rhyme? Trees in their blooming, Tides in their flowing, Stars in their circling, Tremble with song. God on His throne is Eldest of poets: Unto His measures Moveth the Whole. III Therefore deride not Speech of the muses, England my mother, Maker of men. Nations are mortal, Fragile is greatness; Fortune may fly thee, Song shall not fly. Song the all-girdling, Song cannot perish: Men shall make music, Man shall give ear. Not while the choric Chant of creation Floweth from all things, Poured without pause, Cease we to echo Faintly the descant Whereto for ever Dances the world. IV So let the songsmith Proffer his rhyme-gift, England my mother, Maker of men. Gray grows thy count'nance, Full of the ages; Time on thy forehead Sits like a dream: Song is the potion All things renewing, Youth's one elixir, Fountain of morn. Thou, at the world-loom Weaving thy future, Fitly may'st temper Toil with delight. Deemest thou, labour Only is earnest? Grave is all beauty, Solemn is joy. Song is no bauble- Slight not the songsmith, England my mother, Maker of men.