Classic Poem

When the red storms of Death shall cease,
And on each Belgic plain
We note the fruitful year's increase
By waves of golden grain,
And watch once more old scenes of peace
In ravaged field or lane;
What voice from your ensanguined bed
Shall wake your lives, ye glorious Dead?
Though now in Belgic grave concealed,
And bathed in bloody dew,
How bounteous is the harvest's yield
From seeds broadcast by you,
Who fought and died from Zutphen field
Till stedfast Waterloo!
'Neath Sidney's captaincy ye bled,
Who fell by Mons, unnumbered Dead!

From age to age your legions came
Chivalric, true, and brave,
To fight for Freedom and for Fame,
And Britain's cause to save:
Your battle-ground was still the same,
The Belgic soil your grave:
Your Marlborough's glory crowns each head
Laid low but late, illustrious Dead!

From many a far self-governed sphere,
Where other stars control
The changes of th' inverted year,
Men make your tombs their goal;
Till, by your blood united here
In cause and heart and soul,
All sons of Liberty are led
To form one realm, imperial Dead!