quote · Legacy record

Great Britain has her sons, both frank and brave, Who noble triumphs win, but wear no glave! Sons who in heart are firm, in toil are free, To spread her glorious name from sea to sea! Men, who have pushed their conquests wide and far, And changed to pruning-hooks the shafts of war; Who bear no glittering arms, no banners wave— Who strike no blow—are stricken but to save! Yet still they conquer! and where they appear, The painted savage breaks his poisoned spear; A bloodless triumph follows in their train— For those they vanquish feel no victor’s chain! They conquer!—nor like other conquerors boast A prostrate people and a plundered coast— Nor pant to hear a nation’s deafening peals, With captive warriors at their chariot wheels— Nor hang, like relics, in our holiest fane, The flags that blush with war’s unhallowed stains.— No, theirs are triumphs war can never bring! Theirs are the pæans guardian seraphs sing! Their noblest banner is the Book of Truth! Their trophies—age, and infancy, and youth! ’Tis theirs to free—exalt—and not debase— The painted brothers of our common race! Nor stripe—nor tribute—nor oppressive sway Degrade their labours, or obstruct their way! Their watchword still—Let war and sorrow cease! Their noblest epithet—The men of peace!

Great Britain has her sons, both frank and brave, Who noble triumphs win, but wear no glave! Sons who in heart are firm, in toil are free, To spread her glorious name from sea to sea! Men, who have pushed their conquests wide and far, And changed to pruning-hooks the shafts of war; Who bear no glittering arms, no banners wave— Who strike no blow—are stricken but to save! Yet still they conquer! and where they appear, The painted savage breaks his poisoned spear; A bloodless triumph follows in their train— For those they vanquish feel no victor’s chain! They conquer!—nor like other conquerors boast A prostrate people and a plundered coast— Nor pant to hear a nation’s deafening peals, With captive warriors at their chariot wheels— Nor hang, like relics, in our holiest fane, The flags that blush with war’s unhallowed stains.— No, theirs are triumphs war can never bring! Theirs are the pæans guardian seraphs sing! Their noblest banner is the Book of Truth! Their trophies—age, and infancy, and youth! ’Tis theirs to free—exalt—and not debase— The painted brothers of our common race! Nor stripe—nor tribute—nor oppressive sway Degrade their labours, or obstruct their way! Their watchword still—Let war and sorrow cease! Their noblest epithet—The men of peace!

In print by 1888 AD · industrial

Recorded in a printed collection by this date; the original date of these words is still unknown.