O England, thou hast many a precious dower; But of all treasures it is thine to claim, Prize most the memory of each sainted name, That in thy realm, in field or hall or bower Hath wrought high deeds or utter’d words of power-- Unselfish warrior, without fear or blame-- Statesman, with sleepless watch and steadfast aim Holding his country’s helm in perilous hour-- Poet, whose heart is with us to this day Embalm’d in song--or Priest, who by the ark Of faith stood firm in troublous times and dark. Call them not dead, my England! such as they Not _were_ but _are_; within us each survives, And lives an endless life in others’ lives. _John Kells Ingram._ LUSHINGTON LXXX THE MUSTER OF THE GUARDS (1854) Lying here awake, I hear the watchman’s warning-- ‘Past four o’clock’--on this February morning; Hark! what is that?--there swells a joyous shiver Borne down the wind o’er the voices of the river; O’er the lordly waters flowing, ’tis the martial trumpets blowing, ’Tis the Grenadier Guards a-going--marching to the war. Yes--there they go, through the February morning, To where the engine whistles its shrill and solemn warning; And the dull hoarse roar of the multitudes that cheer Falls ever and anon with a faint crash on the ear; ’Mid the tears of wives and mothers, and the prayers of many others, And the cheers of their brothers, they are marching to the war. Cheer, boys, cheer! till you crack a thousand throats; Cheer, boys, cheer! to the merry music’s notes; Let the girls they leave behind them wave handkerchiefs and scarfs, Let the hearty farewell ring through the echoing streets and wharfs; Come--volley out your holloas--come, cheer the gallant fellows, The gallant and good fellows, marching to the war. Bridge of Waterloo!--let the span of each proud arch Spring to the feet of the soldiers as they march; For the last time they went forth, your glorious name was borne Where the bullets rained like hail among the summer corn: Ah! we’ll not forget too soon the great Eighteenth of June, While the British Grenadier’s tune strikes up gaily for the war. Bridge of Waterloo!--accept the happy omen, For the staunchest friends are wrought out of the bravest foemen: Guards of Waterloo!--the troops whose brunt you bore Shall stand at your right hand upon the Danube’s shore; And Trafalgar’s flags shall ride on the tall masts, side by side, O’er the Black Sea and the Baltic, to sweep the waves of war. Die, die away, o’er the bridge and up the street, Shiver of their music, echo of their feet: Dawn upon the darkness, chilly day and pale; Steady rolling engine, flash along the rail; For the good ship waits in port, with her tackle trim and taut, And her ready funnels snort, till she bear them to the war.