Book 3 — At Gibraltar.

England, I stand on thy imperial ground, Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow, I feel within my blood old battles flow,— The blood whose ancient founts in thee are found. Still surging dark against the Christian bound Wide Islam presses; well its peoples know Thy heights that watch them wandering below; I think how Lucknow heard their gathering sound. I turn and meet the cruel turbaned face; England, 'tis sweet to be so much thy son! I feel the conqueror in my blood and race; Last night Trafalgar awed me, and to-day Gibraltar wakened; hark, thy evening gun Startles the desert over Africa!

Thou art the rock of empire, set mid-seas Between the East and West, that God has built; Advance thy Roman borders where thou wilt, While run thy armies true with His decrees. Law, justice, liberty,—great gifts are these; Watch that they spread where English blood is spilt, Lest, mixt and sullied with his country's guilt, The soldier's life-stream flow and Heaven displease. Two swords there are: one naked, apt to smite, Thy blade of war; and, battled-storied, one Rejoices in the sheath and hides from light American I am; would wars were done! Now westward look, my country bids Good-night,— Peace to the world from ports without a gun!