ENGLAND, the sound of weeping breaks thy rest,—
The voice of women wailing o'er the slain,
Whose generous blood hath purpled all in vain
The Desert sands;—what victory unblest
Is thine, proud nation thronèd by the West,
Who, knowing most of men the costly gain
Of freedom, dare to quell in dull disdain
Hearts burning with its insults unredressed.

England, those shrill accusing cries that broke
The calm of the Arabian night, declare
Thee banded with the ancient powers that yoke
Life to the body of Death;—think what despair
Of human justice in those cries awoke,
What doubt of God made sick the desert air!