 | Jubilee greeting at Spithead to the men of Greater Britain By Theodore Watts-Dunton |  |
FOUR SONNETS TO THOSE WHO CARRY THE TONGUE OF Shakspeare round the world.
29
ADVANCE, AUSTRALIA!
THE PASSAGE TO ENGLAND
Yon albatross, whose stirless pinions followThe ship through smile and frown of wind and weather,
Outsails, without the labour of a feather,
Each frigate-bird and gull and ocean-swallow.
Yes, while the sunny billows wake and wallow,
Now yellow as gold—now purple as flowering heather—
Now glassing all the hues of morn together—
In play rides he o'er steaming crest and hollow!
Australia—thou whose flight shall still advance
On wings that never beat, yet never stay—
That win (like thine own bird's) the race in play—
Desert not thou, whatever winds of chance
May fret the changing waves of Time's expanse,
The ship that led thee on thy morning way!
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ENGLAND STANDS ALONE
“England stands alone: without an ally.”
A German Newspaper.
“She stands alone: ally nor friend has she,”
Saith Europe of our England—her who bore
Drake, Blake, and Nelson—Warrior-Queen who wore
Light's conquering glaive that strikes the conquered free.
Alone!—From Canada comes o'er the sea,
And from that English coast with coral shore,
The old-world cry Europe hath heard of yore
From Dover cliffs: “Ready, aye ready we!”
“Europe,” saith England, “hath forgot my boys!—
Forgot how tall, in yonder golden zone
'Neath Austral skies, my youngest born have grown
(Bearers of bayonets now and swords for toys)—
Forgot 'mid boltless thunder—harmless noise—
The sons with whom old England ‘stands alone’!”
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THE BREATH OF AVON
TO ENGLISH-SPEAKING PILGRIMS ON SHAKSPEARE'S BIRTHDAY
I
Whate'er of woe the Dark may hide in wombFor England, mother of kings of battle and song—
Rapine, or racial hate's mysterious wrong,
Blizzard of Chance, or fiery dart of Doom—
Let breath of Avon, rich of meadow-bloom,
Bind her to that great daughter sever'd long—
To near and far-off children young and strong—
With fetters woven of Avon's flower perfume.
Welcome, ye English-speaking pilgrims, ye
Whose hands around the world are join'd by him,
Who make his speech the language of the sea,
Till winds of Ocean waft from rim to rim
The Breath of Avon: let this great day be
A Feast of Race no power shall ever dim.
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II
From where the steeds of Earth's twin oceans tossTheir manes along Columbia's chariot-way;
From where Australia's long blue billows play;
From where the morn, quenching the Southern Cross,
Startling the frigate-bird and albatross
Asleep in air, breaks over Table Bay—
Come hither, pilgrims, where these rushes sway
'Tween grassy banks of Avon soft as moss!
For, if ye found the breath of Ocean sweet,
Sweeter is Avon's earthy, flowery smell,
Distill'd from roots that feel the coming spell
Of May, who bids all flowers that lov'd him meet
In meadows that, remembering Shakspeare's feet,
Hold still a dream of music where they fell.
| Jubilee greeting at Spithead to the men of Greater Britain By Theodore Watts-Dunton | |