SHE stands, a thousand-wintered tree, 
 By countless morns impearled; 
Her broad roots coil beneath the sea, 
 Her branches sweep the world; 
Her seeds, by careless winds conveyed, 
 Clothe the remotest strand 
With forests from her scatterings made, 
New nations fostered in her shade, 
 And linking land with land. 
 
O ye by wandering tempest sown 
 ?Neath every alien star, 
Forget not whence the breath was blown 
 That wafted you afar! 
For ye are still her ancient seed 
 On younger soil let fall? 
Children of Britain?s island-breed, 
To whom the Mother in her need 
 Perchance may one day call.