by Alfred Austin
My soul is sunk in all-suffusing shame;
Yet not for any individual sin,
But that the world's original fair fame-
My own land's most-is not what it hath been.
Shrieks of intolerable bondage smite,
Without response, its comfortable ears,
Making a craven compromise with Might,
For their own luxury, of others' tears.
Better than this the sanguinary crash
Of fratricidal strokes, and nerveful hate!
So do I hope to hear the sabres clash
And tumbrils rattle when the snows abate.
Love peace who will-I for mankind prefer,
To dungeon or disgrace, a sepulchre.
Last updated January 14, 2019