Sons of mine, I hear you thrilling <br />To the trumpet call of war, <br />Gird ye then, I give you freely, <br />As I give your sires before, <br />All the noblest of the children I in love and anguish bore. <br /> <br />Free in service, wise in justice, <br />Fearing but dishonours breath; <br />Steeled to suffer uncomplaining <br />Loss of failure, pain of death <br />Strong in faith which sees the issue and in hope that triumpeth. <br /> <br />Go, and may the God of battles <br />You in his good guidance keep: <br />And if he wisdom giveth <br />Unto his beloved sleep <br />I accept nothing asking, save little space to weep.<br /><br />William Noel Hodgson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/england-to-her-sons/
