| |
| SON of the Ocean Isle! | |
| Where sleep your mighty dead? | |
| Show me what high and stately pile | |
| Is reared o’er Glory’s bed. | |
| |
| Go, stranger! track the deep— | 5 |
| Free, free the white sail spread! | |
| Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, | |
| Where rest not England’s dead. | |
| |
| On Egypt’s burning plains, | |
| By the pyramid o’erswayed, | 10 |
| With fearful power the noonday reigns, | |
| And the palm-trees yield no shade;— | |
| |
| But let the angry sun | |
| From heaven look fiercely red, | |
| Unfelt by those whose task is done!— | 15 |
| There slumber England’s dead. | |
| |
| The hurricane hath might | |
| Along the Indian shore, | |
| And far by Ganges’ banks at night | |
| Is heard the tiger’s roar;— | 20 |
| |
| But let the sound roll on! | |
| It hath no tone of dread | |
| For those that from their toils are gone,— | |
| There slumber England’s dead. | |
| |
| Loud rush the torrent-floods | 25 |
| The Western wilds among, | |
| And free, in green Columbia’s woods, | |
| The hunter’s bow is strung;— | |
| |
| But let the floods rush on! | |
| Let the arrow’s flight be sped! | 30 |
| Why should they reck whose task is done?— | |
| There slumber England’s dead. | |
| |
| The mountain-storms rise high | |
| In the snowy Pyrenees, | |
| And toss the pine-boughs through the sky | 35 |
| Like rose-leaves on the breeze;— | |
| |
| But let the storm rage on! | |
| Let the fresh wreaths be shed! | |
| For the Roncesvalles’ field is won,— | |
| There slumber England’s dead. | 40 |
| |
| On the frozen deep’s repose | |
| ’Tis a dark and dreadful hour, | |
| When round the ship the ice-fields close, | |
| And the northern night-clouds lour;— | |
| |
| But let the ice drift on! | 45 |
| Let the cold-blue desert spread! | |
| Their course with mast and flag is done,— | |
| Even there sleep England’s dead. | |
| |
| The warlike of the isles, | |
| The men of field and wave! | 50 |
| Are not the rocks their funeral piles, | |
| The seas and shores their grave? | |
| |
| Go, stranger! track the deep— | |
| Free, free the white sail spread! | |
| Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, | 55 |
| Where rest not England’s dead. | |
| |
