Excerpt from Songs of England Blest be the cliffs and the crags that girdle Our island home, And blest, thrice blest, the tempests that scourge and curdle The sea into foam. For the nations over the wave eat, sleep, and labour, In doubt and dread The spear is the child at their threshold, the naked sabre The bride by their bed. But we behind bulwarks of brine and rampart of breakers.

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