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490 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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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 !
O silence of the sunless day ! O still ravine ! O stormy deep !
Give up your prey ! Give up your prey !
And those whose wounds are never healed,
Whose weary race is never won, 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, 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.
What profit now that we have bound
The whole round world with nets of gold,
If hidden in our heart is found That care that groweth never old ?
What profit that our galleys ride,
Pine-forest like, on every main ? Ruin and wreck are at our side,
Grim warders of the House of Pain. |
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