Captain be he, my England, who doth know Not careful coasts, with inland welcomes warm; But who, with heart infallible, can go Straight to the gulf-streams of the World, where blow The inevitable Winds. Let cockles swarm The sounded shores. He helms Thee, England! who, Faced by the very Spirit of the Storm, Full at the phantom drives his dauntless prow! And tho' the Vision rend in racks of blood, And drip in thunder from his reeling spars, The compass in his hand, beholds the flood Beneath, o'er-head the everlasting stars Dim thro' the gory ghost; and calm in these, Thro' that tremendous dream sails on to happier seas.
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