The Song of the Sea.

I am the field of the Empires' yield,
The nurse of their roving breed;
I am stress and strain; but I'm sinew and brain
And action; I write my creed
On the shifting shoal, in the lee-shore roll,
In the thread of the reef-ringed strait,
In the cyclone's race, on the loose berg's face,
In the dread of a fog-bound freight.

I have led men out to the fever and drought
On the wings of the Tradewind's pride,
Round the reeling Horn, east where sun is born,
And west where the sun has died.
I have brought them back from the floe and pack,
From the fight on the Spanish Main,
From the Celebes and the south-spread seas
And the beat of the Monsoon's rain.

. . . . .