SON of the Brittannia’s isle, | |
| There by the storied Nile, | |
| The dust has claimed him ere his work was done: | |
| But not for that alone | |
| Has Fame’s clear trumpet blown | 5 |
| Most mournful music o’er her bravest son. | |
| Alas! for England, when the dead | |
| Fell by a coward’s hand her honor fled! | |
| |
| No English squadron broke | |
| Through the thick battle smoke, | 10 |
| At that last hour when the hero fell; | |
| He hoped to see again | |
| (But ah that hope was vain) | |
| Those English colors he had served so well; | |
| He fell, forsaken, undismayed, | 15 |
| True to the land that thus his trust betrayed. | |
| |
| His was the hardest part, | |
| That tries the staunchest heart; | |
| Better the headlong charge when hundreds die, | |
| Than the relentless foe | 20 |
| Watching to strike the blow, | |
| And the slow waiting while the bullets fly— | |
| No friends, no hope, but, like a star, | |
| High duty shining through the clouds of war. | |
| |
| No stately Gothic fane | 25 |
| Roofs in the hero slain, | |
| But the wide sky above the desert sands; | |
| No graven stone shall tell | |
| Where at the last he fell, | |
| And, if interred at all, by alien hands,— | 30 |
| Thrust in a shallow grave to wait | |
| The last loud summons to the fallen great. | |
| |
| No more can England boast | |
| Her name from coast to coast | |
| Shall be a passport to her wandering sons; | 35 |
| Once they could freely roam, | |
| As in their Island home, | |
| Safe far abroad as underneath her guns; | |
| Or, should mishap for vengeance call, | |
| Swift would her anger on the oppressor fall. | 40 |
| |
| But let the meed of blame | |
| Fall with its weight of shame | |
| On those who lacked the courage to command; | |
| The heart of England beats | |
| In London’s thronging streets, | 45 |
| And in the quiet places of the land. | |
| Still to its old traditions true, | |
| In spite of all our rulers failed to do. | |
| |
