Classic Poem

Sons of honour, nobly fathered, scions of the sturdy brood,
Who from age to age have gathered strength and duty in the blood,
Strength to bear the distressed burden, duty which has cost them dear —
Wounds for wage and death for guerdon — Lo! the final hour is here.

Tell again your father's story — how the victory was won —
Not the praise and not the glory — not the triumph led them on —
But the faith that stood unaltered, bore the brunt and paid the toll —
And the heart that never faltered, the unconquerable soul.

From the grave beside the river — peace-encompassed, far removed,
Where the maples gleam and quiver in the garden which he loved —
When the quiet eve is falling, golden on the leafy dell —
From the grave the voice is calling, to the land he loved so well.

Here above the noise and riot — brothers, let us lift our eyes,
Where aloft, in marble quiet, bright against the cloudy skies,
Where it points the warning finger — woe to them who watch and wait —
Woe to them who lounge and linger in the final hour of fate —
Woe to them who lounge and linger when the foe is at the gate.