12
1919
Peace, for whose presence did we erewhile call
With cry sincere, vowing (God knoweth, those
Prótests how passionate were) to love thee all,
Yet when thou camest, pander’d to thy foes
Weaklier than ever, now again the throes
Convulse our being; now, Peace, may’st thou see,
This lust-devoted land is not for thee.
Farewell! Small wonder is it if thou flee
Such faithlessness, yet doth thy memory still