| |
| THEY shot young Windebank just here, | |
| By Merton, where the sun | |
| Strikes on the wall. ’T was in a year | |
| Of blood the deed was done. | |
| |
| At morning from the meadows dim | 5 |
| He watched them dig his grave. | |
| Was this in truth the end for him, | |
| The well-beloved and brave? | |
| |
| He marched with soldier scarf and sword, | |
| Set free to die that day, | 10 |
| And free to speak once more the word | |
| That marshalled men obey. | |
| |
| But silent on the silent band, | |
| That faced him stern as death, | |
| He looked, and on the summer land, | 15 |
| And on the grave beneath. | |
| |
| Then with a sudden smile and proud | |
| He waved his plume, and cried, | |
| “The king! the king!” and laughed aloud, | |
| “The king! the king!” and died. | 20 |
| |
| Let none affirm he vainly fell, | |
| And paid the barren cost | |
| Of having loved and served too well | |
| A poor cause and a lost. | |
| |
| He in the soul’s eternal cause | 25 |
| Went forth as martyrs must— | |
| The kings who make the spirit laws | |
| And rule us from the dust; | |
| |
| Whose wills unshaken by the breath | |
| Of adverse Fate endure, | 30 |
| To give us honor strong as death | |
| And loyal love as sure. | |
| |
