Sir Francis Hastings Doyle.
LAST night, among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaffd, and swore;
A drunken private of the
Who never lookd before.
To-day, beneath the foemans frown,
He stands in Elgins place,
from Britains crown
And type of all her race.
Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewilderd, and alone,
A heart with English instinct
He yet can call his own.
Aye, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord, or axe, or flame:
knows, that not through him
Shall England come to shame.
Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemd,
Like dreams, to come and go;
Bright leagues of
One sheet of living snow;
The smoke above his fathers door
In grey soft eddyings
Must he then watch it rise no more,
Doomd by himself, so young?
Yes, honour calls!with strength like steel
He put the vision by.
Let dusky Indians whine and
An English lad must die.
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,
With knee to man unbent,
on its dreadful brink,
To his red grave he went.
Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed;
Vain, those all-shattering guns;
Unless proud England
The strong heart of her sons.
So, let his name through Europe ring
A man of mean
Who died, as firm as Spartas king,
Because his soul was great.
Copyright: All texts on Bibliomania are © Bibliomania.com Ltd,
and may not be reproduced in any form without our written permission.
See our FAQ for more details.