Classic Poem

Yes, go to them, the brave, the tried, the hurt—
'Tis very fitting so! We cannot go—
Some scores of million souls—to tell them all
We think and feel:
To ease the burden of our laden hearts;
To give the warm grasp of our British hands
In strong assurance of our praise and love;
Of our deep gratitude, to them, our friends,
Our brothers , who for us toiled, suffered, bled:
And left, as we, their dead upon the field,
Their comrades tried and true, around Scutari.
Go to them, then, dear Queen, 'tis very fitting so!
Thy hand can clasp for ours. Thy voice express
Our hearts.
We send thee as our best , as so we ought;
We send thee as our dearest , as thou art;
We send thee our elect , perfect to fill
The office thou hast chosen for our sakes.
A gentle woman thou, and therefore tender:—
A loving wife, and therefore sympathetic:—
A mother, thou, and therefore patient:—
Is there a son among those wounded men
Has made his mother sad? Thy tear will soften him.
Is there a husband kept from wife and bairns?
Thy smile will comfort him.
Is there a lonely one with none to love?
He'll warm beneath thy glance, his dear Queen's glance;
And—soldiers all—they'll all forget their pains,
And long to fight again, even to fall, for thee.
And if for thee, for us; us, who would clasp
Their thin worn hands in ours, and smile our thanks,
And speak our praise of them, and heal their wounds
With gentlest care, each, for himself, if so
We might thus ease our o'er-full hearts.
Yet happy are we still in this, nay, happier,—
Thou being that our best; our dearest;
Our elect; perfect epitome
Of all we would —that thou dost go to them.