"Such is oft the fashion of the world," answered the Soldan: "the tattered robe makes not always the dervish."
Scott: "The Talisman."
ENGLAND'S DEAD
Son of the Ocean Isle!
Where sleep your mighty dead?
Show me what high and stately pile
Is reared o'er Glory's bed.
Go, stranger! track the deep—
Free, free, the white sail spread!
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's dead.
On Egypt's burning plains,
By the pyramid o'erswayed,
With fearful power the noonday reigns,
And the palm trees yield no shade;—
But let the angry sun
From heaven look fiercely red,
Unfelt by those whose task is done!—
There slumber England's dead.
The hurricane hath might
Along the Indian shore,
And far by Ganges' banks at night,
Is heard the tiger's roar;—
But let the sound roll on!
It hath no tone of dread
For those that from their toils are gone,—
There slumber England's dead.