C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

At Gibraltar

ENGLAND, I stand on thy imperial ground,

Not all a stranger: as thy bugles blow,

I feel within my blood old battles flow,—

The blood whose ancient founts in thee are found.

Still surging dark against the Christian bound

Wide Islam presses; well its peoples know

Thy heights that watch them wandering below;

I think how Lucknow heard their gathering sound.

I turn, and meet the cruel, turbaned face.

England, ’tis sweet to be so much thy son!

I feel the conqueror in my blood and race:

Last night Trafalgar awed me, and to-day

Gibraltar wakened; hark, thy evening gun

Startles the desert over Africa!

THOU art the rock of empire, set mid-seas

Between the East and West, that God has built;

Advance thy Roman borders where thou wilt,

While run thy armies true with his decrees:

Law, justice, liberty,—great gifts are these;

Watch that they spread where English blood is spilt,

Lest, mixed and sullied with his country’s guilt,

The soldier’s life-stream flow, and Heaven displease!

Two swords there are: one naked, apt to smite,—

Thy blade of war; and, battle-storied, one

Rejoices in the sheath, and hides from light.

American I am: would wars were done!

Now westward, look, my country bids good-night—

Peace to the world from ports without a gun!