My soul is sunk in all-suffusing shame;

Yet not for any individual sin,

But that the world’s original fair fame-

My own land’s most-is not what it hath been.

Shrieks of intolerable bondage smite,

Without response, its comfortable ears,

Making a craven compromise with Might,

For their own luxury, of others’ tears.

Better than this the sanguinary crash

Of fratricidal strokes, and nerveful hate!

So do I hope to hear the sabres clash

And tumbrils rattle when the snows abate.

Love peace who will-I for mankind prefer,

To dungeon or disgrace, a sepulchre.