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I WHATE’ER of woe the Dark may hide in womb | |
| For England, mother of kings of battle and song— | |
| Be it rapine, racial hates, mysterious wrong, | |
| Blizzard of Chance, or fiery dart of Doom— | |
| Let breath of Avon, rich of meadow-bloom, | 5 |
| Bind her to that great daughter sever’d long— | |
| To near and far-off children young and strong— | |
| With fetters woven of Avon’s flower perfume. | |
| Welcome, ye English-speaking pilgrims, ye | |
| Whose hands around the world are join’d by him, | 10 |
| Who make his speech the language of the sea, | |
| Till winds of Ocean waft from rim to rim | |
| The breath of Avon: let this great day be | |
| A Feast of Race no power shall ever dim. | |
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II From where the steeds of Earth’s twin oceans toss | 15 |
| Their manes along Columbia’s chariot-way— | |
| From where Australia’s long blue billows play— | |
| From where the morn, quenching the Southern Cross, | |
| Startling the frigate-bird and albatross | 20 |
| Asleep in air, breaks over Table Bay— | |
| Come hither, Pilgrims, where these rushes sway | |
| ’Tween grassy banks of Avon soft as moss! | |
| For, if ye found the breath of Ocean sweet, | |
| Sweeter is Avon’s earthy, flowery smell, | 25 |
| Distill’d from roots that feel the coming spell | |
| Of May, who bids all flowers that lov’d him meet | |
| In meadows that, remembering Shakespeare’s feet, | |
| Hold still a dream of music where they fell. | |
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