His carackes were christened of dames To the kirtles whereof he would tack us; With his saints and his gilded stern-frames He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us; Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, And Drake to his Devon again, And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus-- For where are the galleons of Spain? Let his Majesty hang to St. James The axe that he whetted to hack us; He must play at some lustier games Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us; To his mines of Peru he would pack us To tug at his bullet and chain; Alas! that his Greatness should lack us!-- But where are the galleons of Spain? ENVOY Gloriana!--the Don may attack us Whenever his stomach be fain; He must reach us before he can rack us, ... And where are the galleons of Spain? _Austin Dobson._ C RANK AND FILE O undistinguished Dead! Whom the bent covers, or the rock-strewn steep Shows to the stars, for you I mourn--I weep, O undistinguished Dead! None knows your name. Blackened and blurred in the wild battle’s brunt, Hotly you fell ... with all your wounds in front:-- This is your fame! _Austin Dobson._ BRIDGES CI THE FAIR BRASS An effigy of brass Trodden by careless feet Of worshippers that pass, Beautiful and complete, Lieth in the sombre aisle Of this old church unwreckt, And still from modern style Shielded by kind neglect. It shows a warrior arm’d: Across his iron breast His hands by death are charmed To leave his sword at rest, Wherewith he led his men O’ersea, and smote to hell The astonisht Saracen, Nor doubted he did well. Would we could teach our sons His trust in face of doom, Or give our bravest ones A comparable tomb: Such as to look on shrives The heart of half its care; So in each line survives The spirit that made it fair, So fair the characters, With which the dusty scroll, That tells his title, stirs A requiem for his soul. Yet dearer far to me, And brave as he are they, Who fight by land and sea For England at this day; Whose vile memorials, In mournful marbles gilt, Deface the beauteous walls By growing glory built. Heirs of our antique shrines, Sires of our future fame, Whose starry honour shines In many a noble name Across the deathful days, Link’d in the brotherhood That loves our country’s praise, And lives for heavenly good. _Robert Bridges._ SKRINE CII THE GENTLE We come from tower and grange, Where the grey woodlands range, Folding chivalric halls in ancient ease; From Erin’s rain-wet rocks, Or where the ocean-shocks Thunder between the glimmering Hebrides; And many-spired cities grave, With terraced riverain hoar lapped by the storied wave.