At another time we watch the first shipload of emigrants bound for the Antipodes to plant New Englands in Australia, New Zealand, and elsewhere; and so it goes on through the centuries—the Plymouth Hoe beautified by the hands of men, and surrounded by stately buildings, and within sound of a teeming population, but in its general character and appearance little changed since the days of which we have spoken; and Plymouth men of to-day congregate on the Hoe, and watch the huge liners and leviathan battleships coming and going, even as their far-away ancestors noted the coming and going of Drake and his fighting ships that bore over the blue waters of the Sound those pioneers of empire—the sea-dogs of Devon.
W. H. K. Wright.
A SONG OF EMPIRE.
(Occasioned by the visit of the King and Queen to Devonshire, March, 1902.)
A song, a song of Empire, of Britain, and her fame;
Of sons who fought and fell for her, and gained a deathless name;
Of men who on the trackless deep, or on the battle-field,
Maintained her old supremacy, who died, but scorned to yield.
They sowed the seeds of Empire in far lands o’er the sea;