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Title: A War Chant
Author: Virna Sheard [
More Titles by Sheard]
O England! Thy foe hath hated thee long,
And his hate is a deadly thing;
It was held in his heart till its growth was strong,
Now, words have woven it into a song
For little children to sing.
It is hatred that fashioned his shot and shell,
And hatred hid death in the sea;
In hatred the cannon have sounded a knell
O'er the little homes where the peaceful dwell,
And the humble-hearted be.
Thy foe hath swept the blue from the sky
In a fury of smoke and flame;
His guns are not stilled where the wounded lie,--
He hath shown no pity to those who die
For the glory of his name.
He sealed his hate with the blood of his men--
O, the young in their coats of grey!--
They are cast aside, and in river, and fen,
Deep-hidden, where none will find them again
Till the last white judgment day.
Now mirth is forgotten and joy is dead;
The world hath accepted its pain;
Still, over old battlefields, newly red,
The shattered ranks of his army are led
In pomp and a high disdain.
Thy anger grows slowly, for thou art great,
O England! thou well beloved land;
When its tide is full-risen, then thou art Fate,--
And the angel who stands before the gate,
The sword of flame in his hand!
[The end]
Virna Sheard's poem: War Chant
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