Laurels, bring laurels, sheaves on sheaves,
Till England’ s boughs are bare of leaves!
Soon comes the flower more rare, more dear
Than any laurel this year weaves —
The Aloe of the hundredth year
Since from the smoke of Trafalgar
He passed to where the heroes are,
Nelson, who passed and yet is here,
Whose dust is fire beneath our feet,
Whose memory mans our fleet.
Laurels, bring laurels, since they hold
His England’ s tears in each green fold,
His England’ s joy, his England’ s pride,
His England’ s glories manifold.
Yet what was Victory since he died?
And what was Death since he lives yet,
Above a Nation’ s worship set,
Above her heroes glorified?—
Nelson, who made our flag a star
To lead where Victories are!