Antarctic

What tale is this which stirs a world of knaves
    Out of its grubbing to throw greasy pence
    Forth to the hat, and choke with eloquence
    In boastful prose and verse of doubtful staves?
    Four men have died, gentlemen, heroes, braves;
    Snows wrap them round eternally. From thence
    They may no more return to life or sense
    And a steel moon aches down on their chill graves.

    "They died for England." It is excellent
    To die for England. Death is oft the prize
    Of him who bears the burden and the load.
    So with a glory let our lives be spent --
    We may be noble in the Minories
    And die for England in the Camden Road.