The mother sits by Severn side,
Where Severn joins
the Bay,
And great gray ships go down the tide
And
carry her sons away.
They carry them far, they carry them
wide,
To all the Seven Seas,
But never beyond her love
and pride,
And ever the deathless tales abide
They
learned at the Mother's knees.
Stern she is, as well
becomes
The nurse of gentle men,
Who trains their
tread to roll of drums,
Their hands to sword and pen.
Her iron-blooded arteries hold
No soft Corinthian strain;
The Attic soul in a Spartan mould,
Loyal and hardy, clean
and bold,
Shall govern the roaring main.
They come
from South, they come from North,
They come from East and
West;
And who can say, when all go forth,
That any of
these are best?
With names unknown, and names that won
Their fame in a hundred fights,
The admiral's son, and
the ploughman's son,
Mothered by her, they all are one,
Her race of sailor knights.
Young and eager and
unafraid,
As neophytes they kneeled
And watched their
arms, and only prayed
"Keep stain from every shield."
Naught else they fear as they hunt the foes
Through fog,
and storm, and mine,
Keen for the joy of the battle
blows;
But God make strong the hearts of those
Who
love, and are left behind. |
