Sir Robert's Sailor Son

Our Country has no need to raise
The Ghost of glories gone;
Such Heroes dying in our days
Still pass the live torch on.
Brave blood as bright a crimson gleams,
Still burns as goodly a zeal;
The old heroic radiance beams
In men like "William Peel.

So mild in peace, so stern in war,
He walked our English way,
Just one of Shakespeare's Warriors for
A weary working day.
With beautiful bravery clothed on,
And such high moral grace,
The flash of rare soul-armour shone
Out of his noble face!

His Sailors loved him so on deck,
So cheery was his call,
They leapt on land, and in his wake
Followed him, guns and all.
For, as a battle-brand white-hot,
His Spirit grew and glowed,
When in his swift War-chariot
The Avenger rose and rode.

Sleep, Sailor-Darling, true and brave,
With our dead Soldiers sleep!
That so the Land you lived to save,
You shall have died to keep.
You may have wished the dear Sea-blue
To have folded round your breast,
But God had other work for you,
And other place of rest.

We might have reached you with our wreath
If living; but laid low,
You grow so grand! and after death
The dearness deepens so!
To have gone so soon, so loved to have died,
So young to wear that crown,
We think. But with such thrills of pride
As shake the last tears down.

God rest you, gallant Captain Peel,
With those whom England leaves
Scattered as still she plies her steel,
But we glean up in sheaves.
We'll talk of you on land, a-board,
Till Boys shall feel they are Men,
And forests of hands clutch at this Sword
Death gives us back again.

Our old Norse Fathers speak in you,
Speak with their strange sea-charm,
That sets our hearts a-beating to
The music of the storm.
There comes a Spirit from the deep,
The salt wind waves its wings,
That rouses from its Inland sleep
The blood of the old Sea Kings.