THEY were islanders, our fathers were,
And they watched the encircling seas,
And their hearts drank in the ceaseless stir,
And the freedom of the breeze;
Till they chafed at their narrow bounds
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And longed for the sweep of the main,
And they fretted and fumed like hounds
Held in within sight of the plain,
And the play
And the prey.
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So they built them ships of wood, and sailed
To many an unknown coast;
They braved the storm and battles hailed,
And danger they loved most;
Till the tiny ships of wood
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Grew powerful on the globe
And the new-found lands for good
They wrapped in a wondrous robe
Of bold design,
Our brave ensign.
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And islanders yet in a way are we,
Our knowledge is still confined,
And we hear the roar of encircling sea,
To be crossed in the ship of the mind;
And we dream of lands afar,
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Unknown, unconquered yet,
And we chafe at the bounds there are,
And our spirits fume and fret
For the prize
Of the wise.
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But we'll never do aught, I know, unless
We are brave as our sires of old,
And face like them the bitterness
Of the battle and storm and cold;
Unless we boldly stand,
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When men would hold us back,
With the helm-board in our hand,
And our eyes to the shining track
Of what may be
Beyond the sea.
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There are rocks out there in that wide, wide sea,
'Neath many a darkling stream,
And souls that once sailed out bold and free
Have been carried away in a dream;
For they never came back again—
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On the deep the ships were lost;
But in spite of the danger and pain,
The ocean has still to be crossed,
And only they do
Who are brave and true.