Ix

Who now shall sneer? Who dare again to say we trace Our lines to a plebeian race? Roundhead and Cavalier! Dreams are those names erewhile in battle loud; Forceless as is the shadow of a cloud, They live but in the ear: That is best blood that hath most iron, in 't, To edge resolve with, pouring without stint For what makes manhood dear. Tell us not of Plantagenets, Hapsburgs, and Guelfs, whose thin bloods crawl Down from some victor in a border-brawl! How poor their outworn coronets, Matched with one leaf of that plain civic wreath Our brave for honor's blazon shall bequeath, Through whose desert a rescued Nation sets Her heel on treason, and the trumpet hears Shout victory, tingling Europe's sullen ears With vain resentments and more vain regrets!