Aye, the old pride stirs her still As she sails and sails at will; In her cross-trees memories nestle, Though she walks the wave a ghost. Well she minds the wary wrestle When her shot poured hot as lava On the shattered, stubborn Java, Off the dim Brazilian coast; And she haunts the moonlit seas Where her crashing broadsides broke Through the drift of silvered smoke While she waged a double battle In the waters Portuguese. Still the ghostly muskets rattle, And the old drums beat, beat, beat, Like a heart that will not die; And the old fife whistles high, And the powder-scent is rank, And she feels on her hollow plank The old, dead heroes’ feet! Ah, never sailor-man Has seen her where she ranges, Escaped from time and changes As only spirits can, Clear, absolute, and free! Yet, some stern hour to be, When a fight is fought at sea, And the right of the fight is ours, And the cause of the right is failing, There shall rise a frigate sailing, A luminous presence paling Through the powder-cloud where it lowers; Pale smoke from her side shall break, Pale faces over her railing Shall frown, till the foemen shake With fear and bewildered passion, Marking her old-time fashion, In the turrets of hostile powers; And then shall the rumor run Like a lightning from lip to lip, And shall leap from ship to ship, While the wounded gunner reels Again to his reeking gun, Touched with a magic that heals, Feeling this vision remind him That the strong Dead fight behind him: “’Tis the ghost of IRONSIDES, Come back from the tameless tides, From the ocean-fields unbounded, Complete with her scattered spars, Manned with the shades of her tars, With the smoke of her guns surrounded, To succor the Stripes and Stars!” FAIR ENGLAND White England shouldering from the sea, Green England in thy rainy veil, Old island-nest of Liberty And loveliest Song, all hail! God guard thee long from scath and grief! Not any wish of ours would mar One richly glooming ivy-leaf, One rosy daisy-star. What! phantoms are we, spectre-thin, Unfathered, out of nothing born? Did Being in this world begin With blaze of yestermorn? Nay! sacred Life, a scarlet thread, Through lost unnumbered lives has run; No strength can tear us from the dead; The sire is in the son. Nay! through the years God’s purpose glides, And links in sequence deed with deed; Hoar Time along his chaplet slides Bead after jewel-bead. O brother, breathing English air! If both be just, if both be free, A lordlier heritage we share Than any earth can be: