Lights on some woody shore, and the parch'd heavens
Rain fire into the molten raging sea.
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Our fathers, sweating, lean on their spears and view
The mighty dead: giant bodies streaming blood,
Dread visages frowning in silent death.
Then Brutus speaks, inspired; our fathers sit
Attentive on the melancholy shore.
Hear ye the voice of Brutus:—'The flowing waves
'Of Time come rolling o'er my breast,' he said,
'And my heart labours with futurity.
'Our sons shall rule the empire of the sea,
'Their mighty wings shall stretch from east to west;
'Their nest is in the sea, but they shall roam
'Like eagles for their prey . . .
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'Our sons shall rise from thrones in joy, each one
'Buckling his armour on; Morning shall be
'Prevented by the gleaming of their swords,
'And Evening hear their song of victory.
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'Freedom shall stand upon the cliffs of Albion,
'Casting her blue eyes over the green ocean;
'Or, towering, stand upon the roaring waves,
'Stretching her mighty spear o'er distant lands,
'While with her eagle wings she covereth
'Fair Albion's shore and all her families.'
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