Wilfred Scawen Blunt (1840–1922)

SEVEN weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm

Upon the huge Atlantic, and once more

We ride into still water and the calm

Of a sweet evening, screen’d by either shore

Of Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o’er,

Our exile is accomplish’d. Once again

We look on Europe, mistress as of yore

Of the fair earth and of the hearts of men.

Ay, this is the famed rock which Hercules

And Goth and Moor bequeath’d us. At this door

England stands sentry. God! to hear the shrill

Sweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze,

And at the summons of the rock gun’s roar

To see her red coats marching from the hill!