VII.

Call back the Kingly Past! Where, bright and broadening to the main, Rolls on the scornful River,-- Stout hearts beat high on Tilbury's plain,-- Our Marathon for ever! No breeze above, but on the mast The pennon shook as with the blast. Forth from the cloud the day-god strode; Flash'd back from steel, the splendour glow'd,-- Leapt the loud joy from Earth to Heaven, As through the ranks asunder riven, The Warrior-Woman rode! Hark, thrilling through the armed Line The martial accents ring, "Though mine the Woman's form--yet mine, "The Heart of England's King!"[L] Woe to the Island and the Maid! The Pope has preach'd the New Crusade,[M] His sons have caught the fiery zeal; The Monks are merry in Castile; Bold Parma on the Main; And through the deep exulting sweep The Thunder-Steeds of Spain.-- What meteor rides the sulphurous gale? The Flames have caught the giant sail! Fierce Drake is grappling prow to prow; God and St. George for Victory now! Death in the Battle and the Wind-- Carnage before and Storm behind-- Wild shrieks are heard above the hurtling roar By Orkney's rugged strands, and Erin's ruthless shore. Joy to the Island and the Maid! Pope Sextus wept the Last Crusade! His sons consumed before his zeal,-- The Monks are woeful in Castile; Your Monument the Main, The glaive and gale record your tale, Ye Thunder-Steeds of Spain!