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Triumph Song
Down the ocean of the ages, over seas that broke and boiled,
Or where belts of tropic slumber lulled the dreaming halcyon's breast,
Where the stabbing reef thrust upward, where the warping current foiled,
We have tracked the good ship Sherborne to this haven of her rest.
Or where belts of tropic slumber lulled the dreaming halcyon's breast,
Where the stabbing reef thrust upward, where the warping current foiled,
We have tracked the good ship Sherborne to this haven of her rest.
Oak of England, pine of Ida, for the poet's palm may vie;
Never sown was lustier timber than the axe of Ealdhelm felled;
Never keel was straightlier fashioned, never mast so neared the sky;
Never canvass whitelier woven was by fairer gale impelled.
Never sown was lustier timber than the axe of Ealdhelm felled;
Never keel was straightlier fashioned, never mast so neared the sky;
Never canvass whitelier woven was by fairer gale impelled.
Storm and stress of youth were over when once more she took the main;
By the star of truth she steered her, led by captains of renown;
She has thrid the shoals of knowledge, and again and yet again
She shall flap the self-same pennon, she shall tread the surges down.
By the star of truth she steered her, led by captains of renown;
She has thrid the shoals of knowledge, and again and yet again
She shall flap the self-same pennon, she shall tread the surges down.
Men of might who thronged her bulwarks, men whose fame the world knew well,
Men whose fame the world ne'er heard of—and who knows the happier lot?—
These and all who thought and wrought for her, or fought for her and fell,
Are the nearer to our heart of heart because we name them not.
Men whose fame the world ne'er heard of—and who knows the happier lot?—
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Are the nearer to our heart of heart because we name them not.
With the tribute of our praises, words of worship and of love,
Though not half be said or sung for her that in our breast we bore,
With twelve hundred years beneath her, and the bend of heaven above,
Down the ocean of the ages lo! we launch her forth once more!
Though not half be said or sung for her that in our breast we bore,
With twelve hundred years beneath her, and the bend of heaven above,
Down the ocean of the ages lo! we launch her forth once more!
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