Nearer now; but all the madness of the storming surf

Hounds and roars them back; but roars and hounds them back in vain:

As a pleasure-skiff may graze the lake-embanking turf,

[Pg 168]

So the boat that bears them grates the rock where-toward they strain.

Dawn as fierce and haggard as the face of night scarce guides

Toward the cries that rent and clove the darkness, crying for aid,

Hours on hours, across the engorged reluctance of the tides,

Sire and daughter, high-souled man and mightier-hearted maid.

Not the bravest land that ever breasted war's grim sea,

Hurled her foes back harried on the lowlands whence they came,

Held her own and smote her smiters down, while such durst be,

Shining northward, shining southward, as the aurorean flame,

Not our mother, not Northumberland, brought ever forth,

Though no southern shore may match the sons that kiss her mouth,

Children worthier all the birthright given of the ardent north

Where the fire of hearts outburns the suns that fire the south.

Even such fire was this that lit them, not from lowering skies

Where the darkling dawn flagged, stricken in the sun's own shrine,

Down the gulf of storm subsiding, till their earnest eyes

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