  An effigy of brass, Trodden by careless feet Of worshippers that pass, Beautiful and complete, Lieth in the sombre aisle Of this old church unwreckt, And still from modern style Shielded by kind neglect. It shows a warrior armed: Across his iron breast His hands by death are charmed To leave his sword at rest, Wherewith he led his men O’er sea, and smote to hell The astonisht Saracen, Nor doubted he did well. Would we could teach our sons His trust in face of doom, Or give our bravest ones A comparable tomb: Such as to look on shrives The heart of half its care, So in each line survives The spirit that made it fair; So fair the characters With which the dusky scroll That tells his title stirs A requiem for his soul. Yet dearer far to me, And brave as he, are they Who fight by land and sea For England at this day; Whose vile memorials, In mournful marbles gilt, Deface the beauteous walls By growing glory built. Heirs of our antique shrines, Sires of our future fame, Whose starry honor shines In many a noble name Across the deathful days, Linked in the brotherhood That loves our country’s praise And lives for heavenly good. |
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