And keen as a whip they lash and crack
     Their tails that drag the dust, and back
     Scratch up the earth, and feel, entering their flesh, where he,
     The God, drives deep his trident teeth,
     Who in one horror, above, beneath,
     Bids storm and watery deluge seethe,
     And shatters to their depths the abysses of the sea.

     Cant. iv.

     ‘Atkins’

     Yonder’s the man with his life in his hand,
     Legs on the march for whatever the land,
     Or to the slaughter, or to the maiming,
     Getting the dole of a dog for pay. 
     Laurels he clasps in the words ‘duty done,’
     England his heart under every sun:-
     Exquisite humour! that gives him a naming
     Base to the ear as an ass’s bray.

     The voyage of the ‘Ophir’

     Men of our race, we send you one
     Round whom Victoria’s holy name
     Is halo from the sunken sun
     Of her grand Summer’s day aflame. 
     The heart of your loved Motherland,
     To them she loves as her own blood,
     This Flower of Ocean bears in hand,
     Assured of gift as good.

     Forth for our Southern shores the fleet
     Which crowns a nation’s wisdom steams,
     That there may Briton Briton greet,
     And stamp as fact Imperial dreams. 
     Across the globe, from sea to sea,
     The long smoke-pennon trails above,
     Writes over sky how wise will be
     The Power that trusts to love.

     A love that springs from heart and brain
     In union gives for ripest fruit
     The concord Kings and States in vain
     Have sought, who played the lofty brute,
     And fondly deeming they possessed,
     On force relied, and found it break: 
     That truth once scored on Britain’s breast
     Now keeps her mind awake.

     Australian, Canadian,
     To tone old veins with streams of youth,
     Our trust be on the best in man
     Henceforth, and we shall prove that truth. 
     Prove to a world of brows down-bent
     That in the Britain thus endowed,
     Imperial means beneficent,
     And strength to service vowed.

     The crisis

     Spirit of Russia, now has come
     The day when thou canst not be dumb. 
     Around thee foams the torrent tide,
     Above thee its fell fountain, Pride. 
     The senseless rock awaits thy word
     To crumble; shall it be unheard? 
     Already, like a tempest-sun,
     That shoots the flare and shuts to dun,
     Thy land ’twixt flame and darkness heaves,
     Showing the blade wherewith Fate cleaves,
     If mortals in high courage fail
     At the one breath before the gale. 
     Those rulers in all forms of lust,
     Who trod thy children down to dust
     On the red Sunday, know right well