With what white wrath must turn thy bones,
What stern amazement flame thy dust,
To feel so near this England’s heart
The outrage of the assassin’s thrust!
How must thou burn to have endured
The acclaim of these whose fame unclean
Reeks from the “Lusitania’s” slain,
Stinks from the orgies of Malines!
But surely, too, thou art consoled
(Who knew’st thy stalwart breed so well)
To see us rise from sloth, and go,
Plain and unbragging, through this hell.
And surely, too, thou art assured.
Hark how that grim and gathering beat
Draws upwards from the ends of earth,—
The tramp, tramp, of thy kinsmen’s feet.