STRINGER
Sang one of England in his island home:‘Her veins are million, but her heart is one;’And looked from out his wave-bound homeland isleTo us who dwell beyond its western sun.And we among the northland plains and lakes,We youthful dwellers on a younger land,Turn eastward to the wide Atlantic waste,And feel the clasp of England’s outstretched hand.For we are they who wandered far from homeTo swell the glory of an ancient name;Who journeyed seaward on an exile long,When fortune’s twilight to our island came.But every keel that cleaves the midway wasteBinds with a silent thread our sea-cleft strands,Till ocean dwindles and the sea-waste shrinks,And England mingles with a hundred lands.And weaving silently all far-off shoresA thousand singing wires stretch round the earth,Or sleep still vocal in their ocean depths,Till all lands die to make one glorious birth.So we remote compatriots reply,And feel the world-task only half begun:‘We are the girders of the ageing earth,Whose veins are million, but whose heart is one.’Arthur Stringer.
Sang one of England in his island home:‘Her veins are million, but her heart is one;’And looked from out his wave-bound homeland isleTo us who dwell beyond its western sun.And we among the northland plains and lakes,We youthful dwellers on a younger land,Turn eastward to the wide Atlantic waste,And feel the clasp of England’s outstretched hand.For we are they who wandered far from homeTo swell the glory of an ancient name;Who journeyed seaward on an exile long,When fortune’s twilight to our island came.But every keel that cleaves the midway wasteBinds with a silent thread our sea-cleft strands,Till ocean dwindles and the sea-waste shrinks,And England mingles with a hundred lands.And weaving silently all far-off shoresA thousand singing wires stretch round the earth,Or sleep still vocal in their ocean depths,Till all lands die to make one glorious birth.So we remote compatriots reply,And feel the world-task only half begun:‘We are the girders of the ageing earth,Whose veins are million, but whose heart is one.’Arthur Stringer.
Sang one of England in his island home:‘Her veins are million, but her heart is one;’And looked from out his wave-bound homeland isleTo us who dwell beyond its western sun.
And we among the northland plains and lakes,We youthful dwellers on a younger land,Turn eastward to the wide Atlantic waste,And feel the clasp of England’s outstretched hand.
For we are they who wandered far from homeTo swell the glory of an ancient name;Who journeyed seaward on an exile long,When fortune’s twilight to our island came.
But every keel that cleaves the midway wasteBinds with a silent thread our sea-cleft strands,Till ocean dwindles and the sea-waste shrinks,And England mingles with a hundred lands.
And weaving silently all far-off shoresA thousand singing wires stretch round the earth,Or sleep still vocal in their ocean depths,Till all lands die to make one glorious birth.
So we remote compatriots reply,And feel the world-task only half begun:‘We are the girders of the ageing earth,Whose veins are million, but whose heart is one.’
Arthur Stringer.