The Fight in the Bight

Had I that fabled herb
Which brought to life the dead,
Whom would I dare disturb
In his eternal bed?
Great Grenville would I wake,
And with glad tidings make
The storm-rocked soul of Drake
Heave up a glorying head.

As rose the misty sun
Our men the North Sea scanned,
And soon each listening gun
Felt there were foes at hand,
And longed to bid its throat
Sound out for all afloat
The world-awakening note
The world can understand.

Then did the far-thrilled Main
Full suddenly hear with glee
Our cannon speaking plain
The speech that keeps us free,
And crippling on yon tide
Four warships in their pride,
While one, with shattered side,
Fled blazing down the sea.

Sleep on, O Drake, sleep well,
In days not wholly dire!
Grenville, whom nought could quell,
Unquenched is still thy fire!
And thou that had'st no peer,
Nelson, thou need'st not fear.
Thy sons and heirs are here,
Nor will they shame their sire.
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.