Singer of England’s ire across the sea,
Your austere voice, electric from the deep,
Speaks our own yearning, and our spirits sweep
To Europe’s allied honor.--Painfully,
Bowed with a planet’s lonely burden, we
Held our hot hearts in leash, but now they leap
Their ban, like young hounds belling from their keep,
To bait the Teuton wolf of tyranny.
What! Would he throw us sops of sugared art
And poisoned commerce, snarling: “So! lie still
Till I have shown my fangs, and torn the heart
Of half the world, and gorged my sanguine fill!”--
Now, England, let him see: Rage as he will,
He cannot tear our plighted souls apart.