Chapter 9 No.9

England, I stand on thy imperial ground,

Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow,

I feel within my blood old battles flow,-

The blood whose ancient founts in thee are found.

Still surging dark against the Christian bound

Wide Islam presses; well its peoples know

Thy heights that watch them wandering below;

I think how Lucknow heard their gathering sound.

I turn and meet the cruel turbaned face;

England, 'tis sweet to be so much thy son!

I feel the conqueror in my blood and race;

Last night Trafalgar awed me, and to-day

Gibraltar wakened; hark, thy evening gun

Startles the desert over Africa!