The moon herself doth sail the air
As we do sail the sea,
Where by Saint Michael's Mount we fare
Free as the winds are free.
Our keels are bright with elfin gold
That mocks the tyrant's gaze,
That slips from out his greedy hold
And leaves him in amaze.
White water creaming past her prow
The little _Golden Hynde_
Bears westward with her treasure now--
We'd ship and follow blind,
But that he never did require--
Our Captain hath us bound
Only by force of his desire--
The quarry hunts the hound!
The hunt is up, the hunt is up
To the gray Atlantic's bound,--
The health of the Queen in a golden cup!--
The quarry is hunting the hound!
Like steel the stars gleam through the night
On armored waves beneath,--
As England's honor cold and bright
We bear her sword in sheath!
When that great Empire dies away
And none recall her place,
Men shall remember our work to-day
And tell of our Captain's grace,--
How never a woman or child was the worse
Wherever our foe we found,
Nor their own priests had cause to curse
The quarry that hunted the hound!