Only one old post is standing -
Solid yet, but only one -
I
In a solitude of the sea
No soft-skinned Durham steers are they,
No Devons plump and red,
As the nations sat together, grimly waiting —
The fierce and ancient nations battle-scarred —
Prologue:
A YOUNG lady, one of the members of a small society which meets periodically for literary amusement, lost her Veil (by a g
"Drear cell! along whose lonely bounds, Unvisited by light,
It was the good ship Caroline,
That ploughed the Channel foam,
Beneath the golden eagle's shade
Gleam restless eyes of steely grey,
Not for the wealth of thy teeming markets, Roaring factory, thronging way,
Grey gloom the storm-clouds in the Orient far,
Foreshadowing dark and anxious hours to be,
A lonely child with toil o’ertaxed,
Sits Cinderella by the fire;
When the African Arts,
home again,
Across the Queensland border line
The mobs of cattle go;
The shades of night had fallen at last,
When through the house a shadow passed,
Talpra magyar, hí a haza!
Itt az idõ, most vagy soha!
The grey wolf stood in the ruin hoar,
The wolf that hunts alone:
Behind this door
Now buried in deep grass
The seas of England are our old delight:
Let the loud billow of the shingly shore
Brooding he dreams his age-long dream:
He sees not London's pouring stream
When Erin first rose from the dark swelling flood,
God bless'd the green island and saw it was good;
At Viscount Nelson’s lavish funeral,
While the mob milled and yelled about St Paul’s,
The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
“Ah, Fanuel, my noble horse, and art thou, art thou slain?
Wilt thou never bear me to the chase or the battle-field again?
Ye are the Great White People, masters and lords of the earth,
Spreading your stern dominion over the world's wide girth.
My gentle Harp, once more I waken
The sweetness of thy slumbering strain;
There was an Indian, who had known no change,
Who strayed content along a sunlit b
Alas! Now o'er Britannia there hangs a gloom,
Because over 400 British Tars have met with a watery tomb;
Oh! the Cross of deepest blue,
With the bright stars shining through,
King Philip had vaunted his claims;
He had sworn for a year he would sack us;
How solemn sad by Shannon's flood
The blush of morning sun appears!
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