The flag that here floats proudly in the air,
The silent warders on the ramparts white,
The guns that hide in sheltered nooks from sight,
Or from the seaward scarp, their chosen lair,
Gaze on the waters with a steadfast stare,
The rock-cut embrasures ablaze at night,
The mole, the ships, the keep's commanding height,
All speak of stern resolve, and watchful care.
For leagued in arms should Europe rise once more,
To question on this steep the Lion's reign,
Swift must the deadly hail of battles pour,
As on the day when baffled France and Spain
Beheld their vaunted ships in flames ashore,
Or drifting helpless on the stormy main.