The great ships in the harbour
Sit silent on the tide,
And in the sea beneath them
Their gloomy shadows ride.
There is no life, no beauty,
No grace the heart can feel,
In those irenic monsters—
Those hideous forms of steel.
It is old England's squadron,
Her constant watch and ward—
The bulwark of her freedom,
The Channel's matchless guard.
How different from the frigates
That bore the dauntless Blake;
How different from the liners

That roared in Nelson's wake!
Majestic then and lofty
They towered above the deep,
Bestowing beauty on the main
Their forms were framed to keep.
Sail over sail they offered
Their canvas to the wind,
That mimicked in its whiteness
The wake they swept behind.
No wonder kingly seamen
Were bred in ships like those;
No wonder that they made them
A terror to their foes.
For in the grace and beauty
They shed upon the sea
Man found the inspiration
That kept him brave and free.
And man and ship together
Played well that noble part,
Until their oaken sides became

A symbol for his heart.
But look! where black and formless
Those modern monsters ride
A blot upon the seascape,
A load upon the tide.
Hark! from the massive flagship
Breathes out the morning gun;
Exultant in its mission
Her ensign meets the sun.
From battle-ship and cruiser,
From merchantman and fort,
The cross of red makes glorious
The strong and ancient port.
Then with a heart that follows
I turn my eager eyes
To where at honored moorings
The grand old victor lies.
There floats the same proud bunting
She swept along the breeze
The day that France was broken

And driven from the seas.
There in prophetic splendor
It crowns her shapely spar,
The promise of a future—

The final Trafalgar.