Whom for thy race of heroes wilt thou own,
And, England, who shall be thy joy, thy pride?
As thou art just, oh then not those alone
Who nobly conquering lived, or conquering died.
Then also in thy roll of heroes write,
For well they earned what best thou canst bestow,
Who being girt and armÈd for the fight,
Yielded their arms, but to no mortal foe.
Far off they pined on fever-stricken coast,
Or sank in sudden arms of painful death;
And faces which their eyes desired the most,
They saw not, as they drew their parting breath.
Sad doom, to know a mighty work in hand,
Which shall from all the ages honour win;
Upon the threshold of this work to stand,
Arrested there, while others enter in.
And this was theirs; they saw their fellows bound
To fields of fame which they might never share;
And all the while within their own hearts found
A strength that was not less, to do and dare:
But knew that never, never with their peers,
They should salute some grand day’s glorious close,
The shout of triumph ringing in their ears,
The light of battle shining on their brows.
Sad doom;—yet say not Heaven to them assigned
A lot from all of glory quite estranged:
Albeit the laurel which they hoped to bind
About their brows for cypress wreath was changed.
Heaven gave to them a glory stern, austere,
A glory of all earthly glory shorn;
With firm heart to accept fate’s gift severe,
Bravely to bear the thing that must be borne;
To see such visions fade and turn to nought,
And in this saddest issue to consent;
If only the great work were duly wrought,
That others should accomplish it, content.
Then as thou wouldst thyself continue great,
Keep a true eye for what is great indeed;
Nor know it only in its lofty state
And victor’s robes, but in its lowliest weed.
And now, and when this dreadful work is done,
England, be these too thy delight and pride;
Wear them as near thy heart as any one
Of all who conquering lived, or conquering died.
Richard Chenevix Trench.
