WILLIAM WATSON.

* * * * *

AVE IMPERATRIX.

  Set in this stormy Northern sea,
    Queen of these restless fields of tide,
  England! what shall men say of thee,
    Before whose feet the worlds divide?

  The earth, a brittle globe of glass,
    Lies in the hollow of thy hand,
  And through its heart of crystal pass,
    Like shadows through a twilight land,

  The spears of crimson-suited war,
    The long white-crested waves of fight,
  And all the deadly fires which are
    The torches of the lords of Night.

  The yellow leopards, strained and lean,
    The treacherous Russian knows so well,
  With gaping blackened jaws are seen
    To leap through hail of screaming shell.

  The strong sea-lion of England’s wars
    Hath left his sapphire cave of sea,
  To battle with the storm that mars
    The star of England’s chivalry.

  The brazen-throated clarion blows
    Across the Pathan’s reedy fen,
  And the high steeps of Indian snows
    Shake to the tread of armed men.

  And many an Afghan chief, who lies
    Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees,
  Clutches his sword in fierce surmise
    When on the mountain-side he sees

  The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes
    To tell how he hath heard afar
  The measured roll of English drums
    Beat at the gates of Kandahar.

  For southern wind and east wind meet
    Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire,
  England with bare and bloody feet
    Climbs the steep road of wide empire.

  O lonely Himalayan height,
    Gray pillar of the Indian sky,
  Where saw’st thou last in clanging fight
    Our winged dogs of Victory?

  The almond groves of Samarcand,
    Bokhara, where red lilies blow,
  And Oxus, by whose yellow sand
    The grave white-turbaned merchants go;

  And on from thence to Ispahan,
    The gilded garden of the sun,
  Whence the long dusty caravan
    Brings cedar and vermilion;

  And that dread city of Cabool
    Set at the mountain’s scarped feet,
  Whose marble tanks are ever full
    With water for the noonday heat,

  Where through the narrow straight Bazaar
    A little maid Circasian
  Is led, a present from the Czar
    Unto some old and bearded khan,—­

  Here have our wild war-eagles flown,
    And flapped wide wings in fiery flight;
  But the sad dove, that sits alone
    In England—­she hath no delight.

  In vain the laughing girl will lean
    To greet her love with love-lit eyes: 
  Down in some treacherous black ravine,
    Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.

  And many a moon and sun will see
    The lingering wistful children wait
  To climb upon their father’s knee;
    And in each house made desolate