O valiant reach of land that doth include
The striving sea in such a large embrace!
O valiant homes that overlook the face
Of water by a hundred keels subdued!
Poole, thou art map of thine own fortitude,
And, in thy building, eloquent of a race
That singed the beard of Spain and for a lace
Fought on this quay the Georgian excise-brood.
Old, and thy harbour skies more scantly sparred,
Thy constant stones survey the fickle flow
Of Tide and Time; and on thy casements barred
Burns Memory like a crimson afterglow,
Bright as the blood-red hollyhocks that blow
Through the grey timber in this silent yard.