That rain in all its cleanliness befell
These lands of England, glen and glade redressed
With water clear, dilutes to cordial soil
As flaked or flayed from fair, white England’s back,
Dissolute flows, ingrained, and broke to flux
As pain in strains, in creeps, as though from breath
Of breeze, its touch of kin, not brute, and light,
Lighter than blessings blow. So purity
Like lambs’ hair irritates, inflames. The rain
Washes away not that. The fallow maids,
The plough that soiled the virgin queen, and then,
The unicorn, with crooked horn, the foal
Or fool, and now, the clean rain runs, like men
At work, then scattered fast as ants, whose strength
Not feared, is deathly, men storm scatters. Rain
Down on the working train, who dig and quake
For soil. Then comes, they hope, the final rain,
Rightful, torrential, pouring on the princes,
And with new-beaten ploughshares, honest men
Crop the crop-tips, and lop them off at collar.
From high sea borne and stern long siege, fleet rises
Rainsborough, he, the English soldier true,
He, England’s swordsman lived and died and he,
The worthy martyr, slain by intrigue sly.
This English rain had washed the flesh in pain
Fresh rain had cleansed the clouded minds enmeshed
In popish wishes plain. The tyrant that
Had broke this English truce, his sceptre planted
In French and Irish, now by sword is smote.
Rainsborough, English spirit, hilt uncloaked,
Presides unseen, and foe and friend unseeing.