At The Grave Of Charles Darwin, 1896

England’s greatness! not the sword avenging, Not the nations bowed beneath her heel; Not the cross of blood that to her kingdoms Sets its seal.

These are ghosts of old barbaric splendours, Rotting where Imperial Rome lies low; Things that thrill the heart like tales of slaughter Long ago.

Far beyond them is her glory shining, Brighter than the sword within the sun; It shall last when her superb oppressions All are done.

Other armies has she as victorious, Slayers these whose hands are clean of blood, Soldiers whose sublime and steadfast phalanx Wrong withstood.

England’s greatness! this abides unchanging, Won by arms that sound no loud refrains: When all wars and warriors shall have perished, Truth remains.