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X.
The Chastener's hand is on us—we may weep,
But not repine—for many a storm hath past,
And, pillowed on her own majestic deep,
Hath England slept, unshaken by the blast!
And War hath raged o'er many a distant plain,
Trampling the vine and olive in his path;
While she, that regal daughter of the main,
Smiled, in serene defiance of his wrath!
As some proud summit, mingling with the sky,
Hears calmly far below the thunders roll and die.
XI.
Her voice hath been th' awakener—and her name,
The gathering word of nations—in her might,
And all the awful beauty of her fame,
Apart she dwelt, in solitary light.
High on her cliffs, alone and firm she stood,
Fixing the torch upon her beacon-tower;
That torch, whose flame, far streaming o'er the flood,
Hath guided Europe through her darkest hour!—
Away, vain dreams of glory!—in the dust
Be humbled, ocean-queen! and own thy sentence just!
