And quickened, as with quivering battle-stains,
The printed ships that decked the parlour wall.
From oaken frames old admirals looked down:
They saw the lonely slumberer at their feet:
They saw the paper, headed Talk from Town;
Our rusting trident, and our phantom fleet:
And from a neighbouring tavern surged a song
Of England laughing in the face of war,
With eyes unconquerably proud and strong,
And lips triumphant from her Trafalgar.