UEEN born of the sea, that hast borne her

The mightiest of seamen on earth,

Bright England, whose glories adorn her

And bid her rejoice in thy birth

As others made mothers

Rejoice in births sublime,

She names thee, she claims thee,

The lordliest child of time.

II.

All hers is the praise of thy story,

All thine is the love of her choice: The light of her waves is thy glory, The sound of thy soul is her voice. They fear it who hear it

And love not truth nor thee:

They sicken, heart-stricken,

Who see and would not see.

III.

The lords of thy fate, and thy keepers

Whose charge is the strength of thy ships,

If now they be dreamers and sleepers,

Or sluggards with lies at their lips,

Thy haters and traitors,

False friends or foes descried,

Might scatter and shatter

Too soon thy princely pride.

IV.

Smooth France, as a serpent for rancour,

Dark Muscovy, girded with guile, Lay wait for thee riding at anchor On waters that whisper and smile. They deem thee or dream thee

Less living now than dead,

Deep sunken and drunken

With sleep whence fear has fled.

V.

And what though thy song as thine action

Wax faint, and thy place be not known, While faction is grappling with faction, Twin curs with thy corpse for a bone?

They care not, who spare not

The noise of pens or throats;

Who bluster and muster

Blind ranks and bellowing votes.

VI.

Let populace jangle with peerage

And ministers shuffle their mobs;

Mad pilots who reck not of steerage Though tempest ahead of them throbs.

That throbbing and sobbing

Of wind and gradual wave

They hear not and fear not

Who guide thee toward thy grave.

VII.

No clamour of cries or of parties

Is worth but a whisper from thee, While only the trust of thy heart is At one with the soul of the sea.

In justice her trust is,

Whose time her tidestreams keep;

They sink not, they shrink not,

Time casts them not on sleep.

VIII.

Sleep thou for thy past was so royal,

Love hardly would bid thee take heed Though France were not constant and loyal Nor Muscovy guiltless of greed.

No nation, in station

Of story less than thou,

Re-risen from prison,

Can stand against thee now.

IX.

Sleep on is the time not a season

For strong men to slumber and sleep,

And wise men to palter with treason?

And they that sow tares, shall they reap?

The wages of ages

Wherein men smiled and slept,
Fame fails them, shame veils them,

Their record is not kept.