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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341485" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Three Sonnets Written In Mid-Channel</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I<br>Now upon English soil I soon shall stand,<br>Homeward from climes that fancy deems more fair;<br>And well I know that there will greet me there<br>No soft foam fawning upon smiling strand,<br>No scent of orange-groves, no zephyrs bland,<br>But Amazonian March, with breast half bare<br>And sleety arrows whistling through the air,<br>Will be my welcome from that burly land.<br>Yet he who boasts his birthplace yonder lies,<br>Owns in his heart a mood akin to scorn<br>For sensuous slopes that bask 'neath Southern skies,<br>Teeming with wine and prodigal of corn,<br>And, gazing through the mist with misty eyes,<br>Blesses the brave bleak land where he was born.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II<br>And wherefore feels he thus? Because its shore<br>Nor conqueror's foot nor despot's may defile,<br>But Freedom walks unarmed about the isle,<br>And Peace sits musing beside each man's door.<br>Beyond these straits, the wild-beast mob may roar,<br>Elsewhere the veering demagogue beguile:<br>We, hand in hand with the Past, look on and smile,<br>And tread the ways our fathers trod before.<br>What though some wretch, whose glory you may trace<br>Past lonely hearths and unrecorded graves,<br>Round his Sword-sceptre summoning swarms of slaves,<br>Menace our shores with conflict or disgrace,-<br>We laugh behind the bulwark of the waves,<br>And fling the foam defiant in his face.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">III<br>And can it be,-when Heaven this deep moat made,<br>And filled it with the ungovernable seas,<br>Gave us the winds for rampart, waves for frise,<br>Behind which Freedom, elsewhere if betrayed,<br>Might shelter find, and flourish unafraid,-<br>That men who learned to lisp at English knees<br>Of English fame, to pamper womanish ease<br>And swell the surfeits of voracious trade<br>Shall the impregnable breakers undermine,<br>Take ocean in reverse, and, basely bold,<br>Burrow beneath the bastions of the brine?-<br>Nay, England, if the citadel be sold<br>For lucre thus, Tarpeia's doom be thine,<br>And perish smothered in a grave of gold!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Alfred+Austin">Alfred Austin</a><div class=q>
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Now upon English soil I soon shall stand,
Homeward from climes that fancy deems more fair;
And well I know that there will greet me there
No soft foam fawning upon smiling strand,
No scent of orange-groves, no zephyrs bland,
But Amazonian March,..."></div>
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