Ave Imperatrix

 

SET in this stormy Northern sea,	 
  Queen of these restless fields of tide,	 
England! what shall men say of thee,	 
  Before whose feet the worlds divide?	 
  
The earth, a brittle globe of glass,	         
  Lies in the hollow of thy hand,	 
And through its heart of crystal pass,	 
  Like shadows through a twilight land,	 
  
The spears of crimson-suited war,	 
  The long white-crested waves of fight,	  
And all the deadly fires which are	 
  The torches of the lords of Night.	 
  
The yellow leopards, strained and lean,	 
  The treacherous Russian knows so well,	 
With gaping blackened jaws are seen	  
  Leap through the hail of screaming shell.	 
  
The strong sea-lion of England’s wars	 
  Hath left his sapphire cave of sea,	 
To battle with the storm that mars	 
  The star of England’s chivalry.	  
  
The brazen-throated clarion blows	 
  Across the Pathan’s reedy fen,	 
And the high steeps of Indian snows	 
  Shake to the tread of armèd men.	 
  
And many an Afghan chief, who lies	  
  Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees,	 
Clutches his sword in fierce surmise	 
  When on the mountain-side he sees	 
  
The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes	 
  To tell how he hath heard afar	  
The measured roll of English drums	 
  Beat at the gates of Kandahar.	 
  
For southern wind and east wind meet	 
  Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire,	 
England with bare and bloody feet	  
  Climbs the steep road of wide empire.	 
  
O lonely Himalayan height,	 
  Grey pillar of the Indian sky,	 
Where saw’st thou last in clanging fight	 
  Our wingèd dogs of Victory?	  
  
The almond groves of Samarcand,	 
  Bokhara, where red lilies blow,	 
And Oxus, by whose yellow sand	 
  The grave white-turbaned merchants go:	 
  
And on from thence to Ispahan,	  
  The gilded garden of the sun,	 
Whence the long dusty caravan	 
  Brings cedar and vermilion;	 
  
And that dread city of Cabool	 
  Set at the mountain’s scarpèd feet,	  
Whose marble tanks are ever full	 
With water for the noonday heat:	 
  
Where through the narrow straight Bazaar	 
  A little maid Circassian	 
Is led, a present from the Czar	  
  Unto some old and bearded khan,—	 
  
Here have our wild war-eagles flown,	 
  And flapped wide wings in fiery fight;	 
But the sad dove, that sits alone	 
  In England—she hath no delight.	  
  
In vain the laughing girl will lean	 
  To greet her love with love-lit eyes:	 
Down in some treacherous black ravine,	 
  Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.	 
  
And many a moon and sun will see	  
  The lingering wistful children wait	 
To climb upon their father’s knee;	 
  And in each house made desolate	 
  
Pale women who have lost their lord	 
  Will kiss the relics of the slain—	  
Some tarnished epaulette—some sword—	 
  Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain.	 
  
For not in quiet English fields	 
  Are these, our brothers, lain to rest,	 
Where we might deck their broken shields	  
  With all the flowers the dead love best.	 
  
For some are by the Delhi walls,	 
  And many in the Afghan land,	 
And many where the Ganges falls	 
  Through seven mouths of shifting sand.	  
  
And some in Russian waters lie,	 
  And others in the seas which are	 
The portals to the East, or by	 
  The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar.	 
  
O wandering graves! O restless sleep!	  
  O silence of the sunless day!	 
O still ravine! O stormy deep!	 
  Give up your prey! Give up your prey!	 
  
And thou whose wounds are never healed,	 
  Whose weary race is never won,	  
O Cromwell’s England! must thou yield	 
  For every inch of ground a son?	 
  
Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head,	 
  Change thy glad song to song of pain;	 
Wind and wild wave have got thy dead,	  
  And will not yield them back again.	 
  
Wave and wild wind and foreign shore	 
  Possess the flower of English land—	 
Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more,	 
  Hands that shall never clasp thy hand.	 
  
What profit now that we have bound	 
  The whole round world with nets of gold,	 
If hidden in our heart is found	 
  The care that groweth never old?	 
  
What profit that our galleys ride,	 
  Pine-forest-like, on every main?	 
Ruin and wreck are at our side,	 
  Grim warders of the House of pain.	 
  
Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet?	 
  Where is our English chivalry?	 
Wild grasses are their burial-sheet,	 
  And sobbing waves their threnody.	 
  
O loved ones lying far away,	 
  What word of love can dead lips send!	 
O wasted dust! O senseless clay!	 
  Is this the end! is this the end!	 
  
Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead	 
  To vex their solemn slumber so;	 
Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head,	 
  Up the steep road must England go,	 
  
Yet when this fiery web is spun,	 
  Her watchmen shall descry from far	 
The young Republic like a sun	 
  Rise from these crimson seas of war.

Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)

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