The outrage of these poor each day Has wafted to the ear of God, Though stifled by those tyrants—they Who on these workers' rights have trod. At last, O God, the cry of these, The daughters of far Thule's isles, Is borne across the sundering seas, To lands where Freedom kindlier smiles; And, sounding as a trumpet call, Should nerve each arm to strike a blow Against the crew who these enthral, And lay the sordid tyrants low. For Thule's islands from the North Sent seamen brave, whose blood was spilt, As free as rain from heaven comes forth, That England's Empire might be built. And Thule's daughters suckled men— Those Vikings of heroic mould— Whose deeds are proudly blazoned when The story of the seas is told. The daughters of those Vikings send You fruits of long and weary toil, Where skill and beauty deftly blend In many a fairy web and coil. O, England, send them back for these A golden shower; and pledge thy word That, 'spite of gags and sundering seas, Wronged Thule's daughters shall be heard. |