“Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish, the captain of Plymouth:
‘Look at these arms,’ he said, ‘the warlike weapons that hang here,
Burnished, and bright, and clean, as if for parade or inspection.
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders. This breastplate—
Well I remember the day—once saved my life in a skirmish.
There in front you can see the very dint of the bullet
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish Arcabucero.
Had it not been of shear-steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish
Would at this moment be mould in their grave in the Flemish morasses.
Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer, planted