WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England To the stars on your bugles blown!'
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England: You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mail'd hand keeps the keys Of such teeming destinies, You could know nor dread nor ease
Were the Song on your bugles blown, England,
Round the Pit on your bugles blown'
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England, Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own, Chosen daughter of the Lord, Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword, There 's the menace of the Word
In the Song on your bugles blown, England
Out of heaven on your bugles blown'
SIR EDMUND GOSSE
856 Revelation
��r
��rNTO the silver night
She brought with her pale hand The topaz lanthorn-light, And darted splendour o'er the land:
Around her in a band,
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