Gigantic daughter of the West,
We drink to thee across the flood! 
We know thee and we love thee best;
For art thou not of British blood? 
Should war’s mad blast again be blown,
Permit not thou the tyrant powers
To fight thy mother here alone,
But let thy broadsides roar with ours. 
Hands all round! 
God the tyrant’s cause confound! 
To our great kinsman of the West, my friends,
And the great name of England, round and round.

Oh rise, our strong Atlantic sons,
When war against our freedom springs! 
Oh, speak to Europe through your guns! 
They can be understood by kings. 
You must not mix our Queen with those
That wish to keep their people fools: 
Our freedom’s foemen are her foes;
She comprehends the race she rules. 
Hands all round! 
God the tyrant’s cause confound! 
To our great kinsman in the West, my friends,
And the great cause of Freedom, round and round.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

* * * * *

RECESSIONAL.

  God of our fathers, known of old,—­
    Lord of our far-flung battle line,—­
  Beneath whose awful hand we hold
    Dominion over palm and pine,—­
  Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
  Lest we forget,—­lest we forget!

  The tumult and the shouting dies,
    The captains and the kings depart: 
  Still stands thine ancient sacrifice,—­
    An humble and a contrite heart. 
  Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
  Lest we forget,—­lest we forget!

  Far-called, our navies melt away;
    On dune and headland sinks the fire. 
  Lo! all our pomp of yesterday
  Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! 
    Judge of the nations, spare us yet,
  Lest we forget,—­lest we forget!

  If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
    Wild tongues that have not thee in awe,
  Such boasting as the Gentiles use
    Or lesser breeds without the law,—­
  Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
  Lest we forget,—­lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard,
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not thee to guard,
For frantic boasts and foolish word,
Thy mercy on thy people, Lord!
Amen.

RUDYARD KIPLING.

* * * * *

ENGLAND AND HER COLONIES.

  She stands, a thousand-wintered tree,
    By countless morns impearled;
  Her broad roots coil beneath the sea,
    Her branches sweep the world;
  Her seeds, by careless winds conveyed,
    Clothe the remotest strand
  With forests from her scatterings made,
  New nations fostered in her shade,
    And linking land with land.

  O ye by wandering tempest sown
    ’Neath every alien star,
  Forget not whence the breath was blown
    That wafted you afar! 
  For ye are still her ancient seed
    On younger soil let fall—­
  Children of Britain’s island-breed,
  To whom the Mother in her need
    Perchance may one day call.