162
I.
THE BROTHER'S DIRGE.
In the proud old fanes of England
My warrior fathers lie,
Banners hang drooping o'er their dust
With gorgeous blazonry.
But thou, but thou, my brother!
O'er thee dark billows sweep,
The best and bravest heart of all
Is shrouded by the deep.
In the old high wars of England
My noble fathers bled;
For her lion kings of lance and spear,
They went down to the dead.
