 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
THE NORTH EASTER.
Ho, hurrah for England's grim North-easter,
Hissing, howling from the Northern night,
Shouting onward like some battle feaster,
Fallen on the enemy in flight;
Dancing gaily to the banquet, drunken
With the fiery wine of fearless joy,
Shaking to new life the leaflet shrunken,
Stern to make the stoutest tree its toy;
Singing lusty strains of martial glory,
Strains that flower in gallant deeds at length,
Blasts that tell of England's ancient story,
Blasts that breathe in her unconquered strength;
Passionate, as madman from his prison
Bursting, when he knows his time is short,
Scattering brands that burn, in fury risen
Headlong to the ruin of his sport.
Hissing, howling from the Northern night,
Shouting onward like some battle feaster,
Fallen on the enemy in flight;
Dancing gaily to the banquet, drunken
With the fiery wine of fearless joy,
Shaking to new life the leaflet shrunken,
Stern to make the stoutest tree its toy;
Singing lusty strains of martial glory,
Strains that flower in gallant deeds at length,
Blasts that tell of England's ancient story,
Blasts that breathe in her unconquered strength;
Passionate, as madman from his prison
Bursting, when he knows his time is short,
Scattering brands that burn, in fury risen
Headlong to the ruin of his sport.
66
Ho, hurrah for the North easter, blowing
English navies on tempestuous flood,
With artillery of hail, and flowing
Fierce as flame into our English blood;
Hurling snow before it, as a banner
Waved to victory in van of fight,
Moulding in us the imperial manner,
Force supreme from its unmeasured might;
Shaping us with its own sturdy nature,
Will that never bows nor can retreat,
Fashioning from its grand legislature,
Hearts heroic that despise defeat;
Forging unto vaster use, the iron
Sword of character that rules the lands,
Out of frost and storm that us environ,
Tost and hardened by its awful hands.
English navies on tempestuous flood,
With artillery of hail, and flowing
Fierce as flame into our English blood;
Hurling snow before it, as a banner
Waved to victory in van of fight,
Moulding in us the imperial manner,
Force supreme from its unmeasured might;
Shaping us with its own sturdy nature,
Will that never bows nor can retreat,
Fashioning from its grand legislature,
Hearts heroic that despise defeat;
Forging unto vaster use, the iron
Sword of character that rules the lands,
Out of frost and storm that us environ,
Tost and hardened by its awful hands.
Ho, hurrah for the North-easter, rushing
Forth to havoc on resistless track,
Stay to English breasts of steel, and crushing
Down the knave and driving foemen back;
Life to stalwart frame of honest toiler,
Nursed and dandled in its icy arms,
Death to onset of insulting spoiler,
Strangled in its grip before he harms;
Health to all who love the fray, the nation
Schooled in piercing cold and angry gust,
Buffeted by bitter education,
Wrought to rugged manhood brave and just;
Trammeled by no weakening pulse of pity,
Wasted on the fool that feebly frets,
Better than the walls of fleet or city,
Better-than ten thousand bayonets.
Forth to havoc on resistless track,
Stay to English breasts of steel, and crushing
Down the knave and driving foemen back;
Life to stalwart frame of honest toiler,
Nursed and dandled in its icy arms,
Death to onset of insulting spoiler,
Strangled in its grip before he harms;
Health to all who love the fray, the nation
Schooled in piercing cold and angry gust,
Buffeted by bitter education,
Wrought to rugged manhood brave and just;
Trammeled by no weakening pulse of pity,
Wasted on the fool that feebly frets,
Better than the walls of fleet or city,
Better-than ten thousand bayonets.
Ho, hurrah for the North-easter, heaping
Chains alone upon the coward slave,
Armed as Liberty's bright spirit, leaping
Up in grandeur from its winter grave;
Laden with the scent of Arctic ocean,
Wrung from regions terrible and dark,
Beating in us the wild love of motion,
Leaving every land its lordly mark;
Blessing, cursing now—now laughing, weeping,
In the riot of its giant life,
Striking down with dreadful stabs, and sleeping
Only to awake in madder strife;
Robed in whirlwind rage and shadow, making
Deeper spread its roots our old oak tree,
Crowning those that breathe it kings, and shaking
England into glory great and free.
Chains alone upon the coward slave,
Armed as Liberty's bright spirit, leaping
Up in grandeur from its winter grave;
Laden with the scent of Arctic ocean,
Wrung from regions terrible and dark,
Beating in us the wild love of motion,
Leaving every land its lordly mark;
Blessing, cursing now—now laughing, weeping,
In the riot of its giant life,
Striking down with dreadful stabs, and sleeping
Only to awake in madder strife;
Robed in whirlwind rage and shadow, making
Deeper spread its roots our old oak tree,
Crowning those that breathe it kings, and shaking
England into glory great and free.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |