With the ships of Spain before In the shelter of the shore, And the forts on the right, They drew forward to the fight, And the first was the gallant Commodore; In the bay of Manila, In the doomed bay of Manila-- With succor half the world away, No port beneath that sky, With nothing but their ships and guns And Yankee pluck to try, They had left retreat behind them, They had come to win or die!
For we spoke at Manila, We said it at Manila, Oh be ye brave, or be ye strong, Ye build your ships in vain; The children of the sea queen's brood Will not give up the main; We hold the sea against the world As we held it against Spain.
Be warned by Manila, Take warning by Manila, Ye may trade by land, ye may fight by land, Ye may hold the land in fee; But not go down to the sea in ships To battle with the free; For England and America Will keep and hold the sea!
Daughter of God! that sitt'st on high Amid the dances of the sky, And guidest with thy gentle sway The planets on their tuneful way; Sweet Peace! shall ne'er again The smile of thy most holy face, From thine ethereal dwelling-place, Rejoice the wretched, weary race Of discord-breathing men? Too long, O gladness-giving Queen! Thy tarrying in heaven has been; Too long o'er this fair blooming world The flag of blood has been unfurled, Polluting God's pure day; Whilst, as each maddening people reels, War onward drives his scythed wheels, And at his horses' bloody heels Shriek Murder and Dismay.
Oft have I wept to hear the cry Of widow wailing bitterly; To see the parent's silent tear For children fallen beneath the spear; And I have felt so sore The sense of human guilt and woe, That I, in Virtue's passioned glow, Have cursed (my soul was wounded so) The shape of man I bore! Then come from thy serene abode, Thou gladness-giving child of God! And cease the world's ensanguined strife, And reconcile my soul to life; For much I long to see, Ere I shall to the grave descend, Thy hand its blessed branch extend, And to the world's remotest end Wave Love and Harmony!
Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York, And all the clouds that lowered upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; Our bruisèd arms hung up for monuments; Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged War hath smoothed his wrinkled front. And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber, To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.