An Inscription - For Stratfield Saye - Poem by Samuel Rogers
These are the groves a grateful people gave
For noblest service; and from age to age,
May they, to such as come with listening ear,
Relate the story! Sacred is their shade;
Sacred the calm they breathe - oh, how unlike
What in the field 'twas his so long to know;
Where many a mournful, many an anxious thought,
Troubling, perplexing, on his weary mind
Preyed, ere to arms the morning-trumpet called:
Where, till the work was done and darkness fell,
Blood ran like water, and, go where thou wouldst
Death in thy path-way met thee, face to face.
For on, regardless of himself, He went
And, by no change elated or depressed,
Fought, till he won the' imperishable wreath,
Leading the conquerors captive; on he went,
Bating nor heart nor hope, whoe'er opposed;
The greatest warriors, in their turn, appearing;
The last that came, the greatest of them all--
One scattering fear, as born but to subdue,
And, even in rout, in ruin, scattering fear;
So long, till warred on by the elements,
Invincible; the mightiest of the earth!
When such the service, what the recompense?
What was not due to him if he served?
Yet, if I err not, a renown as fair,
And fairer still, awaited him at home;
When in his place, day after day, he stood,
The party-zeal, that round him raged, restraining;
--His not to rest, while his the strength to serve.
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