Bend down and read-the birth, the death, the name. <br />Born in the year that Waterloo was won, <br />And died in this, whose days are not yet run, <br />But which, because a year conceived in shame, <br />No noble need will christen or will claim. <br />And yet this dead man, England, was Thy son, <br />And at his grave we ask what had he done, <br />Bred to be famous, to be foiled of Fame. <br />Be the reply his epitaph: That he, <br />In years as youth, the unyielding spirit bore <br />He got from Thee, but Thou hast got no more; <br />And that it is a bane and bar to be <br />A child of Thine, now the adventurous sea <br />All vainly beckons to a shrinking shore. <br /> <br />Therefore, great soul, within your marble bed <br />Sleep sound, nor hear the useless tears we weep. <br />Why should you wake, when England is asleep, <br />Or care to live, since England now is dead? <br />Forbidden are the steeps where Glory led; <br />No more from furrowed danger of the deep <br />We harvest greatness; to our hearths we creep, <br />Count and recount our coin, and nurse our dread. <br />The sophist's craft hath grown a prosperous trade, <br />And womanish Tribunes hush the manly drum: <br />The very fear of Empire strikes us numb, <br />Fumbling with pens, who brandished once the blade. <br />Therefore, great soul, sleep sound where you are laid, <br />Blest in being deaf when Honour now is dumb.<br /><br />Alfred Austin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/henry-bartle-edward-frere/
