When once the Spithead nightingales sang out across the midnight tide,
And watch-bells tolled from shore to shore where fleets and kingdoms rode the wide,
The Curia Regis heard them faint, then drew the purse-strings hard and fast,
While gold that once had armed the ships was scattered to the winds and cast;
For silver fed the courtly feast, and vanity was richly crowned,
Whilst iron decks grew bare and still, and shipwrights wandered empty round;
Yet far beyond the western foam, beneath a moon of blood and flame,
The Dragon stirred within his lair, and counted every mast by name.
Then slowly from the river mouths came hammer-stroke and furnace glow,
The Dragon forged his timbered teeth where once the quiet waters flowed;
He raised his spars against the stars, he filled his yards with canvas black,
And built with patient hands of steel the thunder of the coming pack;
While those who held the kingdom’s purse proclaimed the seas secure,
And spent the wealth of ancient kings on pleasures fleeting and unsure,
The nightingales fell silent, and the watch-bells ceased to warn,
For empires die not in a storm, but first forget the storm is born.
(By John Shenton)