Classic Poem

— 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,
— 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 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, —
— 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-leaveSon 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, —
— Even there sleep 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.