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By Clive Hamilton [C. S. Lewis]



 As of old Phoenician men, to the Tin Isles sailing

Straight against the sunset and the edges of the earth,

Chaunted loud above the storm and the strange sea’s wailing,

Legends of their people and the land that gave them birth—

Sang aloud to Baal-Peor, sang unto the horned maiden,

Sang how they should come again with the Brethon treasure laden,

Sang of all the pride and glory of their hardy enterprise,

How they found the outer islands, where the unknown stars arise;

And the rowers down below, rowing hard as they could row,

Toiling at the stroke and feather through the wet and weary weather,

Even they forgot their burden in the measure of a song,

And the merchants and the masters and the bondsmen all together,

Dreaming of the wondrous islands, brought the gallant ship along;

So in mighty deeps alone on the chainless breezes blown

In my coracle of verses I will sing of lands unknown,

Flying from the scarlet city where a Lord that knows no pity,

Mocks the broken people praying round his iron throne,

Sing about the Hidden Country fresh and full of quiet green.

Sailing over seas uncharted to a port that none has seen.

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