SEVEN weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm <br />Upon the huge Atlantic, and once more <br />We ride into still water and the calm <br />Of a sweet evening, screen'd by either shore <br />Of Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o'er, <br />Our exile is accomplish'd. Once again <br />We look on Europe, mistress as of yore <br />Of the fair earth and of the hearts of men. <br /> Ay, this is the famed rock which Hercules <br />And Goth and Moor bequeath'd us. At this door <br />England stands sentry. God! to hear the shrill <br />Sweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze, <br />And at the summons of the rock gun's roar <br />To see her red coats marching from the hill!<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/gibraltar/
