  Sons 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, 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, With fearful power the noon-day 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! 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. 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 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! 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, Like rose-leaves on the breeze. But let the storm rage on! Let the forest-wreaths be shed! For the Roncesvalles’ field is won; There slumber England’s dead. On the frozen deep’s repose ’Tis a dark and dreadful hour, When round the ship the ice-fields close, To chain her with their power. But let the ice drift on! Let the cold-blue desert spread! Their course with mast and flag is done; There slumber England’s dead. The warlike of the isles, The men of field and wave, 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, Where rest not England’s dead. —Felicia Dorothea Hemans. |
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