He lies among the gusty chancel leaves,
The storms have marred his scutcheon, bruised
His arms are broke, his corslet folds are stored
With moss, and winds have eaten smooth his greaves;
His eyes, deep sunk beneath their battered eaves,
Are filled with tears the heedless rains have poured—
But, squire, or knight, or belted warrior-lord,
From passers-by due honour he receives.
His name is wiped from out the book of men,
But still his lips of stone give high command—
In stern crusade against the wrong we stand,
Our hearts the battle ground, our sword the pen,
While he went forth to win the Holy Land,
To clash in onset with the Saracen.
(Sonnets at the English Lakes, p. 89)