While that Armada, which should rake the deep,
Skulks in its hole at Kiel.
So stands your record—stay, I cry you grace—
I wronged you. There is Belgium, where your sword
Has bled to death a free and gallant race
Whose life you held in ward;
Where on your trail the smoking land lies bare
Of hearth and homestead, and the dead babe clings
About its murdered mother's breast—ah, there,
Yes, you have done great things!