  (May 19, 1915) Land of the desolate, Mother of tears, Weeping your beauty marred and torn, Your children tossed upon the spears, Your altars rent, your hearths forlorn, Where Spring has no renewing spell, And Love no language save a long Farewell! Ah, precious tears, and each a pearl, Whose price—for so in God we trust Who saw them fall in that blind swirl Of ravening flame and reeking dust— The spoiler with his life shall pay, O tried and proved, whose record stands Lettered in blood too deep to fade, Take courage! Never in our hands Shall the avenging sword be stayed Till you are healed of all your pain, And come with Honour to your own again. Sir Owen Seaman Reprinted by permission of London "Punch" |
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