Set in this stormy Northern sea，

　　Queen of these restless fields of tide，

　　England！ what shall men say of thee，

　　Before whose feet the worlds divide？

　　The earth， a brittle¹ globe of glass，

　　Lies in the hollow of thy hand，

　　And through its heart of crystal pass，

　　Like shadows through a twilight² land，

　　The spears of crimson³-suited war，

　　The long white-crested waves of fight，

　　And all the deadly fires which are

　　The torches of the lords of Night.

　　The yellow leopards⁴， strained and lean，

　　The treacherous⁵ Russian knows so well，

　　With gaping⁶ blackened jaws⁷ are seen

　　Leap through the hail of screaming shell.

　　The strong sea-lion of England's wars

　　Hath left his sapphire⁸ cave of sea，

　　To battle with the storm that mars

　　The stars of England's chivalry⁹.

　　The brazen-throated clarion¹⁰ blows

　　Across the Pathan's reedy fen¹¹，

　　And the high steeps of Indian snows

　　Shake to the tread of armed men.

　　And many an Afghan chief， who lies

　　Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees，

　　Clutches his sword in fierce surmise¹²

　　When on the mountain-side he sees

　　The fleet-foot Marri scout¹³， who comes

　　To tell how he hath heard afar

　　The measured roll of English drums

　　Beat at the gates of Kandahar.

　　For southern wind and east wind meet

　　Where， girt and crowned by sword and fire，

　　England with bare and bloody¹⁴ feet

　　Climbs the steep road of wide empire.

　　O lonely Himalayan height，

　　Grey pillar of the Indian sky，

　　Where saw'st thou last in clanging flight

　　Our winged dogs of Victory？

　　The almond-groves of Samarcand，

　　Bokhara， where red lilies blow，

　　And Oxus， by whose yellow sand

　　The grave white-turbaned merchants go：

　　And on from thence to Ispahan，

　　The gilded¹⁵ garden of the sun，

　　Whence the long dusty caravan¹⁶

　　Brings cedar¹⁷ wood and vermilion；

　　And that dread¹⁸ city of Cabool

　　Set at the mountain's scarped feet，

　　Whose marble tanks are ever full

　　With water for the noonday heat：

　　Where through the narrow straight Bazaar¹⁹

　　A little maid Circassian

　　Is led， a present from the Czar

　　Unto some old and bearded khan， -

　　Here have our wild war-eagles flown，

　　And flapped wide wings in fiery²⁰ fight；

　　But the sad dove， that sits alone

　　In England - she hath no delight.

　　In vain the laughing girl will lean

　　To greet her love with love-lit eyes：

　　Down in some treacherous black ravine，

　　Clutching his flag， the dead boy lies.

　　And many a moon and sun will see

　　The lingering wistful children wait

　　To climb upon their father's knee；

　　And in each house made desolate²¹

　　Pale women who have lost their lord

　　Will kiss the relics²² of the slain²³ -

　　Some tarnished²⁴ epaulette - some sword -

　　Poor toys to soothe²⁵ such anguished²⁶ pain.

　　For not in quiet English fields

　　Are these， our brothers， lain to rest，

　　Where we might deck their broken shields

　　With all the flowers the dead love best.

　　For some are by the Delhi walls，

　　And many in the Afghan land，

　　And many where the Ganges falls

　　Through seven mouths of shifting sand.

　　And some in Russian waters lie，

　　And others in the seas which are

　　The portals to the East， or by

　　The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar.

　　O wandering graves！ O restless sleep！

　　O silence of the sunless day！

　　O still ravine！ O stormy deep！

　　Give up your prey²⁷！ Give up your prey！

　　And thou whose wounds are never healed，

　　Whose weary race is never won，

　　O Cromwell's England！ must thou yield

　　For every inch of ground a son？

　　Go！ crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head，

　　Change thy glad song to song of pain；

　　Wind and wild wave have got thy dead，

　　And will not yield them back again.

　　Wave and wild wind and foreign shore

　　Possess the flower of English land -

　　Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more，

　　Hands that shall never clasp thy hand.

　　What profit now that we have bound

　　The whole round world with nets of gold，

　　If hidden in our heart is found

　　The care that groweth never old？

　　What profit that our galleys²⁸ ride，

　　Pine-forest-like， on every main？

　　Ruin and wreck²⁹ are at our side，

　　Grim warders of the House of Pain.

　　Where are the brave， the strong， the fleet？

　　Where is our English chivalry？

　　Wild grasses are their burial-sheet，

　　And sobbing³⁰ waves their threnody³¹.

　　O loved ones lying far away，

　　What word of love can dead lips send！

　　O wasted dust！ O senseless clay！

　　Is this the end！ is this the end！

　　Peace， peace！ we wrong the noble dead

　　To vex³² their solemn slumber³³ so；

　　Though childless， and with thorn-crowned head，

　　Up the steep road must England go，

　　Yet when this fiery web is spun³⁴，

　　Her watchmen shall descry³⁵ from far

　　The young Republic like a sun

　　Rise from these crimson seas of war.

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