Sitting at times over a hearth that burns <br />With dull domestic glow, <br />My thought, leaving the book, gratefully turns <br />To you who planned it so. <br /> <br />Not of the great only you deigned to tell--- <br />The stars by which we steer--- <br />But lights out of the night that flashed, and fell <br />Tonight again, are here. <br /> <br />Such as were those, dogs of an elder day, <br />Who sacked the golden ports, <br />And those later who dared grapple their prey <br />Beneath the harbour forts: <br /> <br />Some with flag at the fore, sweeping the world <br />To find an equal fight, <br />And some who joined war to their trade, and hurled <br />Ships of the line in flight. <br /> <br />Whether their fame centuries long should ring <br />They cared not over-much, <br />But cared greatly to serve God and the king, <br />And keep the Nelson touch; <br /> <br />And fought to build Britain above the tide <br />Of wars and windy fate; <br />And passed content, leaving to us the pride <br />Of lives obscurely great.<br /><br />Sir Henry Newbolt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/minora-sidera/
