SET in this stormy Northern sea, |
|
Queen of these restless fields of tide, |
|
England! what shall men say of thee, |
|
Before whose feet the worlds divide? |
|
|
The earth, a brittle globe of glass, |
5 |
Lies in the hollow of thy hand, |
|
And through its heart of crystal pass, |
|
Like shadows through a twilight land, |
|
|
The spears of crimson-suited war, |
|
The long white-crested waves of fight, |
10 |
And all the deadly fires which are |
|
The torches of the lords of Night. |
|
|
The yellow leopards, strained and lean, |
|
The treacherous Russian knows so well, |
|
With gaping blackened jaws are seen |
15 |
Leap through the hail of screaming shell. |
|
|
The strong sea-lion of England’s wars |
|
Hath left his sapphire cave of sea, |
|
To battle with the storm that mars |
|
The star of England’s chivalry. |
20 |
|
The brazen-throated clarion blows |
|
Across the Pathan’s reedy fen, |
|
And the high steeps of Indian snows |
|
Shake to the tread of armèd men. |
|
|
And many an Afghan chief, who lies |
25 |
Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees, |
|
Clutches his sword in fierce surmise |
|
When on the mountain-side he sees |
|
|
The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes |
|
To tell how he hath heard afar |
30 |
The measured roll of English drums |
|
Beat at the gates of Kandahar. |
|
|
For southern wind and east wind meet |
|
Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire, |
|
England with bare and bloody feet |
35 |
Climbs the steep road of wide empire. |
|
|
O lonely Himalayan height, |
|
Grey pillar of the Indian sky, |
|
Where saw’st thou last in clanging fight |
|
Our wingèd dogs of Victory? |
40 |
|
The almond groves of Samarcand, |
|
Bokhara, where red lilies blow, |
|
And Oxus, by whose yellow sand |
|
The grave white-turbaned merchants go: |
|
|
And on from thence to Ispahan, |
45 |
The gilded garden of the sun, |
|
Whence the long dusty caravan |
|
Brings cedar and vermilion; |
|
|
And that dread city of Cabool |
|
Set at the mountain’s scarpèd feet, |
50 |
Whose marble tanks are ever full |
|
With water for the noonday heat: |
|
|
Where through the narrow straight Bazaar |
|
A little maid Circassian |
|
Is led, a present from the Czar |
55 |
Unto some old and bearded khan,— |
|
|
Here have our wild war-eagles flown, |
|
And flapped wide wings in fiery fight; |
|
But the sad dove, that sits alone |
|
In England—she hath no delight. |
60 |
|
In vain the laughing girl will lean |
|
To greet her love with love-lit eyes: |
|
Down in some treacherous black ravine, |
|
Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies. |
|
|
And many a moon and sun will see |
65 |
The lingering wistful children wait |
|
To climb upon their father’s knee; |
|
And in each house made desolate |
|
|
Pale women who have lost their lord |
|
Will kiss the relics of the slain— |
70 |
Some tarnished epaulette—some sword— |
|
Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain. |
|
|
For not in quiet English fields |
|
Are these, our brothers, lain to rest, |
|
Where we might deck their broken shields |
75 |
With all the flowers the dead love best. |
|
|
For some are by the Delhi walls, |
|
And many in the Afghan land, |
|
And many where the Ganges falls |
|
Through seven mouths of shifting sand. |
80 |
|
And some in Russian waters lie, |
|
And others in the seas which are |
|
The portals to the East, or by |
|
The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar. |
|
|
O wandering graves! O restless sleep! |
85 |
O silence of the sunless day! |
|
O still ravine! O stormy deep! |
|
Give up your prey! Give up your prey! |
|
|
And thou whose wounds are never healed, |
|
Whose weary race is never won, |
90 |
O Cromwell’s England! must thou yield |
|
For every inch of ground a son? |
|
|
Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head, |
|
Change thy glad song to song of pain; |
|
Wind and wild wave have got thy dead, |
95 |
And will not yield them back again. |
|
|
Wave and wild wind and foreign shore |
|
Possess the flower of English land— |
|
Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more, |
|
Hands that shall never clasp thy hand. |
100 |
|
What profit now that we have bound |
|
The whole round world with nets of gold, |
|
If hidden in our heart is found |
|
The care that groweth never old? |
|
|
What profit that our galleys ride, |
105 |
Pine-forest-like, on every main? |
|
Ruin and wreck are at our side, |
|
Grim warders of the House of pain. |
|
|
Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet? |
|
Where is our English chivalry? |
110 |
Wild grasses are their burial-sheet, |
|
And sobbing waves their threnody. |
|
|
O loved ones lying far away, |
|
What word of love can dead lips send! |
|
O wasted dust! O senseless clay! |
115 |
Is this the end! is this the end! |
|
|
Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead |
|
To vex their solemn slumber so; |
|
Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head, |
|
Up the steep road must England go, |
120 |
|
Yet when this fiery web is spun, |
|
Her watchmen shall descry from far |
|
The young Republic like a sun |
|
Rise from these crimson seas of war. |