Classic Poem

Hark now, what fretful voices
Sound shrill from shore to shore!—
The home-bred curs of England
Barking at England's door,—
The weak wolf-hearted creatures
Who gather multiform
And out of quiet waters
Would fain shriek up the Storm!

Hark, how the half-breed answers
With strident harsh refrain,
Echoed by Windmill-Journals
That whirl yet grind no grain—
Out o'er the peaceful waters
The hideous notes are hurl'd,
While poets of the banjo
Defy the listening world!

Not thus in days departed
Did England's triumphs come—
The Hero then was silent,
The Martyr then was dumb!
Amid the roll of tempests
You heard no rowdy's song—
The Makers of our England
Were still as they were strong!

Not thus the sons of England
Grew strong and great and free,
Bridling the white sea-horses
That sweep from sea to sea,—
With stern lips set in silence
They paused and bent the knee,
And prayed the God of Silence
To give them victory!

The mighty hand of England
Should be too strong to raise
The trumpet of the Braggart
That sounds her own self-praise!
Her glory (still she gains it
From sleepless year to year)
Is wrought through deeds of Heroes,
Not shrieks of Chanticleer!

Out there upon the waters
Heroes are living still,—
From land to land they wander
With firm and fearless will;
They plough the stormy billow,
But vaunt not what they do,—
The Mariners of England
Are calm as they are true!

Yonder our legions gather
Beneath the battle-flag,
They march to Death in silence
And let the coward brag;
To urge their spirits onward
They need no savage song,—
The Warriors of England
Are still as they are strong!

And still, erect and fearless,
Unarm'd or sword in hand,
Wherever Honour beckons
Our silent Heroes stand:
They scorn the shrieking remnant
Who gather multiform
And, safe from every danger,
Would fain shriek up the Storm!