THE BATTLE-FLEET.

The moment we have waited long Is closing on us fast, When, cutting short the turret-gong, We'll hear the Cordite's Battle-song That hails the Day at last. The clashing rams come driving forth To meet the waiting shell, And far away to East and North Our targets steam to meet Thy Wrath, And dare the Gates of Hell. We do not ask Thee, Lord, to-day To stay the sinking sun— But hear Thy steel-clad servants pray, And keep, O Lord, Thy mists away Until Thy work is done.