XI.

Oh England! great thy glory, great the love Thy children bear thee, when to certain death, Or death nigh certain, dauntlessly they move, Condensed in shouts for thee their parting breath! ’Tis not one Curce or Ion gloryeth Thy history to record, one Mutius fierce, One Regulus self-devoted. Hundreds hath Each fleet and army, prompt for thee to pierce Their panting breasts, and choose for bridal bed a hearse!