There walks no wind 'neath Heaven Nor wave that shall restore The old careening riot And the clamorous, crowded shore The fountain in the desert, The cistern in the waste, The bread we ate in secret, The cup we spilled in haste! Now call I to my Captains- To me the straiter prison, To me the heavier chain To me Diego Valdez, High Admiral of Spain ! THE BROKEN MEN FOR things we never mention, For Art misunderstoodFor excellent intention That did not turn to good; From ancient tales' renewing, From clouds we would not clear Beyond the Law's pursuing We fled, and settled here. We took no tearful leaving, The widow and the orphan That pray for ten per cent., They clapped their trailers on us To spy the road we went. They watched the foreign sailings (They scan the shipping still), And that's your Christian people Returning good for ill! God bless the thoughful islands God bless the just Republics But set him on his feet; And save his wife and daughters From the workhouse and the street! On church and square and market The noonday silence falls; You'll hear the drowsy mutter Of the fountain in our halls. Asleep amid the yuccas The city takes her ease Till twilight brings the land-wind Day long the diamond weather, The smell of goats and incense And the mule-bells tinkling through. Day long the warder ocean That keeps us from our kin, And once a month our levee When the English mail comes in. You'll find us up and waiting To treat you at the bar; Than the average English are. We sail o' nights to England And join our smiling Boards; Our wives go in with Viscounts And our daughters dance with Lords. But behind our princely doings, And behind each coup we make, We feel there's Something Waiting, And-we meet It when we wake. Ah God! One sniff of England- Once more through London mud! Our towns of wasted honour Our streets of lost delight! How stands the old Lord Warden? Are Dover's cliffs still white? |