Christ’s calend calls a solemn roll.
What shall be writ, what shall be said
Of Saxon when this blood-writ scroll
By God’s white light at last is read?
What of ye Saxon nations, ye
Who prate the Christ most noisily?
The eagle’s bent beak at the throat
Of Peace where far, fair islands lie:
The greedy lion sees a mote
In his brave, weaker brother’s eye