One voice, one people, one in heart <br />And soul and feeling and desire. <br />Re-light the smouldering martial fire <br />And sound the mute trumpet! Strike the lyre! <br />The hero dead cannot expire: <br />The dead still play their part. <br /> <br />Raise high the monumental stone! <br />A nation's fealty is theirs, <br />And we are the rejoicing heirs, <br />The honoured sons of sires whose cares <br />We take upon us unawares <br />As freely as our own. <br /> <br />We boast not of the victory, <br />But render homage, deep and just, <br />To his–to their–immortal dust, <br />Who proved so worthy of their trust; <br />No lofty pile nor sculptured bust <br />Can herald their degree. <br /> <br />No tongue can blazon forth their fame– <br />The cheers that stir the sacred hill <br />Are but mere promptings of the will <br />That conquered them, that conquers still; <br />And generations yet shall thrill <br />At Brock's remembered name. <br /> <br />Some souls are the Hesperides <br />Heaven sends to guard the golden age, <br />Illumining the historic page <br />With record of their pilgrimage. <br />True martyr, hero, poet, sage,– <br />And he was one of these. <br /> <br />Each in his lofty sphere, sublime, <br />Sits crowned above the common throng: <br />Wrestling with some pythonic wrong <br />In prayer, in thunders, thought or song, <br />Briareus-limbed, they sweep along, <br />The Typhons of the time.<br /><br />Charles Sangster<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/brock-2/
