Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,

Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?

When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men

As come forward, one to ten,

To the Song on your bugles blown,
England-

Down the years on your bugles blown? Ever the faith endures,

England, my England :—

'Take us and break us: we are yours,
England, my own!

Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England-

To the stars on your bugles blown!'
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:

You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!

You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies

You could know nor dread nor ease

Were the Song on your bugles blown,
England-

Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,

England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,

Chosen daughter of the Lord,

Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient sword,
There's the menace of the Word

In the Song on your bugles blown,

England

Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
William Ernest Henley.

CV

A SONG OF THE SEA

FREE as the wind that leaps from out the North, When storms are hurrying forth,

Up-springs the voice of England, trumpetclear,

Which all the world shall hear,

As one may hear God's thunder over-head,—
A voice that echoes through the sunset red,
And through the fiery portals of the morn
Where, day by day, the golden hours are born,-
A voice to urge the strengthening of the
bands

That bind our Empire Lands

With such a love as none shall put to scorn !

They little know our England who deny

The claim we have, from zone to furthest zone,
To belt the beauteous earth,

And treat the clamorous ocean as our own
In all the measuring of its monstrous girth.
The tempest calls to us, and we reply;
And not, as cowards do, in under-tone!

The sun that sets for others sets no more

On Britain's world-wide shore

Which all the tides of all the seas have known.

We have no lust of strife:

We seek no vile dissension for base ends; Freedom and fame and England are old friends. Yet, if our foes desire it, let them come,

Whate'er their numbers be!

They know the road to England, mile by mile,

And they shall learn, full soon, that strength nor

guile

Will much avail them in an English sea;

We will not hurl them backward to the waves,We'll give them graves!

'Tis much to be so honoured in the main,

And feel no further stain

Than one's own blood outpoured in lieu of wine. 'Tis much to die in England, and for this

To win the sabre-kiss

Of some true man who deems his cause divine,
And loves his country well.

A foe may calmly dwell

In our sweet soil with daisies for his quilt,-
Their snows to hide his guilt,

And earth's good warmth about him where he lies
Beyond the burden of all battle-cries,

And made half-English by his resting-place :-
God give him grace!

We love the sea,-the loud, the leaping sea,-
The rush and roar of waters-the thick foam,-

The sea-bird's sudden cry,

The gale that bends the lithe and towering masts Of good ships bounding home,

That spread to the great sky

Exultant flags unmatched in their degree!

And 'tis a joy that lasts,

A joy that thrills the Briton to the soul

Who knows the nearest goal

To all he asks of fortune and of fame,

From dusk to dawn and dawn to sunset-flame.

He knows that he is free,

With all the freedom of the waves and winds

That have the storm in fee.

And this our glory still:-to bear the palm
In all true enterprise,

And everywhere, in tempest and in calm,
To front the future with unfearing eyes,

And sway the seas where our advancement lies,
With Freedom's flag uplifted, and unfurled;
And this our rallying-cry, whate'er befall,
Goodwill to men, and peace throughout the world,
But England, England,-England over all!
Eric Mackay.

CVI

THE BALLAD OF THE RAM

WHO 'as 'eard the Ram a-callin' on the green fields o' the sea,

Let 'em wander east or west an' mighty fast:

For it's bad to 'ear the Ram when he's up an' runnin' free

With the angry bit o' ribbon at the mast.

It's rush an' surge an' dash when the Ram is on the leap,

But smash an' crash for them as stops the way : The biggest ship goes down right there that ain't got sense to keep

The shore-walk o' the werry nearest bay.

For Frenchy ships, an' German too, an' Russian, you may bet,

It's safer for to land an' 'ome by tram,

Than out to come an' gallivant an' risk the kind o'

wet

That follers runnin' counter to a Ram.

For when the Terror lifts 'is 'ead an' goes for wot is

near,

I'm sorry for them ships wot sails so free:

It's best to up an' elsewhere, an' be werry far from

'ere,

When Rams 'ave took to bleatin' on the sea!

CVII

William Sharp.

SPRING THOUGHTS

My England, island England, such leagues and leagues away,

It's years since I was with thee, when April wanes

to May.

Years since I saw the primrose, and watched the brown hillside

Put on white crowns of blossom and blush like April's bride;

Years since I heard thy skylark, and caught the throbbing note

Which all the soul of springtide sends through the blackbird's throat.

O England, island England, if it has been my lot. To live long years in alien lands, with men who love thee not,

I do but love thee better who know each wind that blows,

The wind that slays the blossom, the wind that buds the rose,

The wind that shakes the taper mast and keeps the topsail furled,

The wind that braces nerve and arm to battle with the world:

I love thy moss-deep grasses, thy great untortured

trees,

The cliffs that wall thy havens, the weed-scents of thy seas.

The dreamy river reaches, the quiet English homes, The milky path of sorrel down which the springtide

comes.

Oh land so loved through length of years, so tended and caressed,

The land that never stranger wronged nor foeman dared to waste,

Remember those thou speedest forth round all the world to be

Thy witness to the nations, thy warders on the sea!