If the base violence of wicked men Prevail at last; if Charles, to please his lord, And Louis, for his glory much concerned, Must needs snatch from us our sea-rescued plains, Which soon the tides will make their own again, 5 When once the strenuous freemen shall have fled, At whose command they ebbed with angry bark; If France must needs prevail and we must yield, Then we will yield our lands, but not ourselves. Ships we have left that will contain, I judge, 10 Two hundred thousand steadfast Hollanders; And ’twixt the realms where our oppressors live A heaving highway lies, to Dutchmen known, And to be known hereafter in all lands-- The highway of the exodus of freedom! 15 Prepare then for departure, citizens; And for the little space that yet remains, Make much of home and of your fatherland; Visit your fathers’ graves, take note of all The furniture of your ancestral homes, 20 And let your hearts take the impression off To furnish dreams beside the Southern sea; Fetch home at once your children from the school, And in the garden turn them loose to play, Nor let them want for marbles, hoops, and balls, 25 That in their old age they may tell their boys Their home in the cold North was not unsweet. If any skilful painter be among you, At some resplendent noontide let him sit, And paint the busiest street in Amsterdam; 30 Nor let him slur one stain upon a brick, Nor smoke-dulled slip of greenery in a window; And every old cathedral let him paint, The columns ranged as in some grove of pines, And windows richer than the sunset clouds, 35 Wherein the Christ for centuries has smiled, And rich-robed haloed saints regarded Him; The Colleges of Leyden and Utrecht, The solemn libraries, with portraits hung Of Gerard and à Kempis, let him paint, 40 And let him paint the Liberator’s grave: The artist that preserves our Holland for us Shall be much honoured in our Southern home. So, bearing with us all that can be moved, We will weigh anchor to the sound of psalms, 45 And winds from heaven shall waft us to the west, Between the shores of tyranny on the left, And the pale cliffs of falsehood on the right; While looking towards the north, our captains tell To wondering maidens and exulting boys, 50 How through the helpless Medway’s mouth they sailed, And saw the towering Keep of Rochester; While looking towards the south, another group Hangs on the lips of some book-learnèd man, Who tells the tale of Egmont and St. Quentin: 55 Till the low-lying shores recede from sight,