THESE cliffs, the anvils of the hammering sea,
You know them well ! These winds that sweep or swerve
O'er bays that have the sickle's gleam and curve,
They are Ulster's, and you fought to keep her free.
But now a greater claims you more than she,
Claims your strong brain, clear speech, and virile nerve,
And best shall you the lesser mistress serve,
Serving the greater yet more vehemently,--
Her who demands, from souls of signal dower,
Amid the tempest that is not yet stayed,
No piecemeal service and no parcelled aid,
But their whole wealth of valour, zeal, and power,
Needing it all, and needing it each hour,
Till her vast adversary in dust be laid.
