Over the curve of the rounded sea, in ordered lines as the ranks of Rome, Over the far horizon steamed a power that held us dumb,-- Miles of racing lines of steel that flattened the sea to a field of foam, Rolling deep to the wash they made, We saw, to the threat of a German blade, The Shield of England come.
The sentries at the Castle Gate, We hold the outer wall, That echoes to the roar of hate And savage bugle-call-- Of those that seek to enter in with steel and eager flame, To leave you with but eyes to weep the day the Germans came.
Though we may catch from out the Keep A whining voice of fear, Of one who whispers "Rest and sleep, And lay aside the spear," We pay no heed to such as he, as soft as we are hard; We take our word from men alone--the men that rule the guard.
We hear behind us now and then The voices of the grooms, And bickerings of serving-men Come faintly from the rooms; But let them squabble as they please, we will not turn aside, But--curse to think it was for them that fighting men have died.
Whatever they may say or try, We shall not pay them heed; And though they wail and talk and lie, We hold our simple Creed-- No matter what the cravens say, however loud the din, Our Watch is on the Castle Gate, and none shall enter in.
When the battle-worn Horatius, 'midst the cheering Roman throng-- All flushed with pride and triumph as they carried him along-- Reached the polished porch of marble at the doorway of his home, He felt himself an Emperor--the bravest man of Rome. The people slapped him on the back and knocked his helm askew, Then drifted back along the road to look for something new. Then Horatius sobered down a bit--as you would do to-day-- And straightened down his tunic in a calm, collected way. He hung his battered helmet up and wiped his sandals dry, And set a parting in his hair--the same as you and I. His lady kissed him carefully and looked him up and down, And gently disengaged his arm to spare her snowy gown. "You _are_ a real disgrace, you know, the worst I've ever seen; Now go and put your sword away, I _know_ it isn't clean. And you must change your clothes at once, you're simply wringing wet; You've been doing something mischievous, I hope you lost your bet.... Why! you're bleeding on the carpet. Who's the brute that hurt you so? Did you kill him? _There's a darling!_ Serve him right for hitting low." Then she hustled lots of water, turning back her pretty sleeves, And she set him on the sofa (having taken off his greaves). And bold Horatius purred aloud, the stern Horatius smiled, And didn't seem to mind that he was treated like a child. Though she didn't call him Emperor, or cling to him and cry, Yet I rather think he liked it--just the same as you and I.