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 arm’d:
Across his iron breast
His hands by death are charmed
To leave his sword at rest,
Wherewith he led his men
O’ersea, 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 dusty 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 honour shines
In many a noble name
Across the deathful days,
Link’d in the brotherhood
That loves our country’s praise,
And lives for heavenly good.
Robert Bridges.
