DRAKE

England, my mother,

Lift to my western sweetheart

One full cup of English mead, breathing of the may!

Pledge the may-flower in her face that you and ah, none other,

Sent her from the mother-land

Across the dashing spray.

Hers and yours the story:

Think of it, oh, think of it —

That immortal dream when El Dorado flushed the skies!

Fill the beaker full and drink to Drake's undying glory,

Yours and hers ( Oh, drink of it! )

The dream that never dies.

Yours and hers the free-men

Who scanned the stars and westward sung

When a king commanded and the Atlantic thundered “Nay!”

Hers as yours the pride is, for Drake our first of seamen

First upon his bow-sprit hung

That bunch of English may.

Pledge her deep, my mother;

Through her veins thy life-stream runs!

Spare a thought, too, sweetheart, for my mother o'er the sea!

Younger eyes are yours; but ah, those old eyes and none other

Once bedewed the may-flower; once,

As yours, were clear and free.

Once! Nay, now as ever

Beats within her ancient heart

All the faith that took you forth to seek your heaven alone:

Shadows come and go; but let no shade of doubt dissever,

Cloak, or cloud, or keep apart

Two souls whose prayer is one.

Sweetheart, ah, be tender —

Tender with her prayer to-night!

Such a goal might yet be ours!— the battle-flags be furled,

All the wars of earth be crushed, if only now your slender

Hand should grasp her gnarled old hand

And federate the world.

Foolish it may seem, sweet!

Still the battle thunder lours:

Darker look the Dreadnoughts as old Europe goes her way!

Yet your hand, your hand, has power to crush that evil dream, sweet;

You, with younger eyes than ours

And brows of English may.

If a singer cherishes

Idle dreams or idle words,

You shall judge — and you'll forgive: for, far away or nigh,

Still abides that Vision without which a people perishes:

Love will strike the atoning chords!

Hark — there comes a cry!

Over all this earth, sweet,

The poor and weak look up to you —

Lift their burdened shoulders, stretch their fettered hands in prayer:

You, with gentle hands, can bring the world-wide dream to birth, sweet,

While I lift this cup to you

And wonder — will she care?

Kindle, eyes, and beat, heart!

Hold the brimming breaker up!

All the may is burgeoning from East to golden West!

England, my mother, greet America, my sweetheart:

— Ah, but ere I drained the cup

I found her on your breast.