At Gibraltar, I

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 people 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!