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Edith Nesbit - A Song Of Trafalgar
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LIKE an angry sun, like a splendid star, 
    War gleams down the long years` track; 
They strain at the leash, the dogs of war, 
    And who shall hold them back? 
"Let loose the pack: we are English bred, 
    We will meet them full and fair 
With the flag of England over our head, 
    And his hand to keep it there!" 


So spake our fathers. Our flag, unfurled, 
    Blew brave to the north and south; 
An iron answer we gave the world, 
    For we spoke by the cannon`s mouth. 
But he who taught us the word to say 
    Grew dumb as his Victory sang, 
And England mourned on her triumph day, 
    And wept while her joy-bells rang. 


Long hour by hour, and long day by day, 
    The swift years crept apace, 
The patient, the coral-insect way, 
    To cover the dear dead face. 
O foolish rabble of envious years, 
    Who wist not the dead must rise, 
His name is music still in our ears, 
    His face a light to our eyes! 


Bring hither your laurels, the fading sign 
    Of a deathless love and pride; 
These cling more close than the laurels twine, 
    They are strong as the world is wide: 
At the feet of Virtue in Valour clad 
    Shall glory and love be laid, 
While Glory sings to an English lad, 
    Or Love to an English maid. 


Wherever the gleams of an English fire 
    On an English roof-tree shine, 
Wherever the fire of a youth`s desire 
    Is laid upon Honour`s shrine, 
Wherever brave deeds are treasured and told, 
    In the tale of the deeds of yore 
Like jewels of price in a chain of gold 
    Are the name and the fame he bore. 


Wherever the track of our English ships 
    Lies white on the ocean foam, 
His name is sweet to our English lips 
    As the names of the flowers at home; 
Wherever the heart of an English boy 
    Grows big with a deed of worth, 
Such names as his name have begot the same, 
    Such hearts will bring it to birth. 


They say that his England, grown tired and old, 
    Lies drunk by her heavy hoard; 
They say her hands have the grasp of the gold 
    But not the grip of the sword, 
That her robe of glory is rent and shred, 
    And that winds of shame blow through: 
    Speak for your England, O mighty Dead, 
    In the deeds you would have her do! 


Small skill have we to fight with the pen 
    Who fought with the sword of old, 
For the sword that is wielded of Englishmen 
    Is as much as one hand can hold. 
Yet the pen and the tongue are safe to use, 
    And the coward and the wise choose these; 
But fools and brave were our English crews 
    When Nelson swept the seas. 


`Tis the way of a statesman to fear and fret, 
    To ponder and pause and plan, 
But the way of Nelson was better yet, 
    For that was the way of a man; 
They would teach us smoothness, who once were rough, 
    They have bidden us palter and pray, 
But the way of Nelson was good enough, 
    For that was the fighting way. 


If Nelson`s England must stoop to bear 
    What never honour should brook, 
In vain does the tomb of her hero wear 
    The laurel his brow forsook; 
In vain was the speech from the lips of her guns, 
    If now must her lips refrain; 
In vain has she made us, her living sons, 
    Her dead have made her in vain. 


So here with your bays be the dear head crowned, 
    Lay flowers where the dear dust lies, 
And wreathe his column with laurel round 
    To point his fame to the skies; 
But the greenest laurel that ever grew 
    Is the laurel that`s yet to win; 
Crowned with his laurels he waits for You 
    To bring Your laurels in!
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