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.
"THE UNKNOWN CITY"
There lies a city inaccessible,
Where the dead dreamers dwell.
Abrupt and blue, with many a high ravine
And soaring bridge half seen.
With many an iris cloud that comes and goes
Over the ancient snows,
The imminent hills environ it, and hold
Its portals from of old,
That grief invade not, weariness, nor war,
Nor anguish evermore.
White-walled and jettied on the peacock tide,
With domes and towers enskied,
Its battlements and balconies one sheen
Of ever-living green,
It hears the happy dreamers turning home
Slow-oared across the foam.
Cool are its streets with waters musical
And fountains' shadowy fall.
With orange and anemone and rose,
And every flower that blows
Of magic scent or unimagined dye,
Its gardens shine and sigh.
Its chambers, memoried with old romance
And faëry circumstance,—
From any window love may lean some time
For love that dares to climb.