Away with bayonet and with lance, With corselet, casque, and sword; Our island-king no war-horse needs, For on the sea he’s lord. His throne’s the war-ship’s lofty deck, His sceptre is the mast; His kingdom is the rolling wave, His servant is the blast. His anchor’s up, fair Freedom’s flag Proud to the mast he nails; Tyrants and conquerors bow your heads, For there your terror sails. I saw fierce Prussia’s chargers stand, Her children’s sharp swords out;-- Proud Austria’s bright spurs streaming red When rose the closing shout; But soon the steeds rush’d masterless, By tower, and town, and wood; For lordly France her fiery youth Poured o’er them like a flood. Go, hew the gold spurs from your heels, And let your steeds run free; Then come to our unconquered decks, And learn to reign at sea. Behold yon black and batter’d hulk That slumbers on the tide, There is no sound from stem to stern, For peace has pluck’d her pride; The masts are down, the cannon mute She shows nor sheet nor sail, Nor starts forth with the seaward breeze, Nor answers shout nor hail; Her merry men, with all their mirth, Have sought some other shore; And she with all her glory on, Shall rule the sea no more. So landsmen speak. Lo! her top-masts Are quivering in the sky; Her sails are spread, her anchor’s raised, There sweeps she gallant by. A thousand warriors fill her decks; Within her painted side The thunder sleeps--man’s might has nought Can match or mar her pride. In victor glory goes she forth; Her stainless flag flies free; Kings of the earth, come and behold How Britain reigns on sea! When on your necks the armèd foot Of fierce Napoleon trod, And all was his, save the wide sea, Where we triumphant rode, He launched his terror and his strength, Our sea-born pride to tame; They came--they got the Nelson-touch, And vanish’d as they came. Go, hang your bridles in your halls, And set your war-steeds free; The world has one unconquer’d king, And he reigns on the sea! _Allan Cunningham._ BYRON XLIX ON LEAVING ENGLAND Once more upon the waters! Yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar! Swift be their guidance, wheresoe’er it lead! Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed, And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, Still must I on; for I am as a weed, Flung from the rock, on Ocean’s foam to sail Where’er the surge may sweep, the tempest’s breath prevail.