BRIDGES
An effigy of brassTrodden by careless feetOf worshippers that pass,Beautiful and complete,Lieth in the sombre aisleOf this old church unwreckt,And still from modern styleShielded by kind neglect.It shows a warrior arm’d:Across his iron breastHis hands by death are charmedTo leave his sword at rest,Wherewith he led his menO’ersea, and smote to hellThe astonisht Saracen,Nor doubted he did well.Would we could teach our sonsHis trust in face of doom,Or give our bravest onesA comparable tomb:Such as to look on shrivesThe heart of half its care;So in each line survivesThe spirit that made it fair,So fair the characters,With which the dusty scroll,That tells his title, stirsA requiem for his soul.Yet dearer far to me,And brave as he are they,Who fight by land and seaFor England at this day;Whose vile memorials,In mournful marbles gilt,Deface the beauteous wallsBy growing glory built.Heirs of our antique shrines,Sires of our future fame,Whose starry honour shinesIn many a noble nameAcross the deathful days,Link’d in the brotherhoodThat loves our country’s praise,And lives for heavenly good.Robert Bridges.
An effigy of brassTrodden by careless feetOf worshippers that pass,Beautiful and complete,Lieth in the sombre aisleOf this old church unwreckt,And still from modern styleShielded by kind neglect.It shows a warrior arm’d:Across his iron breastHis hands by death are charmedTo leave his sword at rest,Wherewith he led his menO’ersea, and smote to hellThe astonisht Saracen,Nor doubted he did well.Would we could teach our sonsHis trust in face of doom,Or give our bravest onesA comparable tomb:Such as to look on shrivesThe heart of half its care;So in each line survivesThe spirit that made it fair,So fair the characters,With which the dusty scroll,That tells his title, stirsA requiem for his soul.Yet dearer far to me,And brave as he are they,Who fight by land and seaFor England at this day;Whose vile memorials,In mournful marbles gilt,Deface the beauteous wallsBy growing glory built.Heirs of our antique shrines,Sires of our future fame,Whose starry honour shinesIn many a noble nameAcross the deathful days,Link’d in the brotherhoodThat loves our country’s praise,And lives for heavenly good.Robert Bridges.
An effigy of brassTrodden by careless feetOf worshippers that pass,Beautiful and complete,
Lieth in the sombre aisleOf this old church unwreckt,And still from modern styleShielded by kind neglect.
It shows a warrior arm’d:Across his iron breastHis hands by death are charmedTo leave his sword at rest,
Wherewith he led his menO’ersea, and smote to hellThe astonisht Saracen,Nor doubted he did well.
Would we could teach our sonsHis trust in face of doom,Or give our bravest onesA comparable tomb:
Such as to look on shrivesThe heart of half its care;So in each line survivesThe spirit that made it fair,
So fair the characters,With which the dusty scroll,That tells his title, stirsA requiem for his soul.
Yet dearer far to me,And brave as he are they,Who fight by land and seaFor England at this day;
Whose vile memorials,In mournful marbles gilt,Deface the beauteous wallsBy growing glory built.
Heirs of our antique shrines,Sires of our future fame,Whose starry honour shinesIn many a noble name
Across the deathful days,Link’d in the brotherhoodThat loves our country’s praise,And lives for heavenly good.
Robert Bridges.