 
Strange, that in this great hour, when Righteousness Has won her war upon Hypocrisy, That some there be who, lost in littleness, And mindful of an ancient grudge, can ask: "Now, what has England done to win this war?" We think we see her smile that English smile, And shrug a lazy shoulder and—just smile. It were so little worth her while to pause In her stupendous task to make reply. What has she done? When with her great, gray ships, Lithe, lean destroyers, grim, invincible, She swept the prowling Prussian from the seas; And, heedless of the slinking submarine, The hidden mine, the Hun-made treacheries, Her transports plied the waters ceaselessly! You ask what she has done? Have you forgot That 'neath the burning suns of Palestine She fought and bled, nor wearied of the fight Till from that land where walked the Nazarene Ah, what has England done? No need to ask! Upon the fields of Flanders and of France A million crosses mark a million graves; Upon each cross a well-loved English name. And, ah, her women! On that peaceful isle, Where in the hawthorn hedges thrushes sang, And meadow-larks made gay the scented air, Now blackened chimneys rear their grimy heads, Smoke-belching, and the frightened birds have fled Before the thunder of the whirring wheels. Behind unlovely walls, amid the din, Seven times a million noble women toil— With tender, unaccustomed fingers toil, Nor dream that they have played a hero's part. Great-hearted England, we have fought the fight Together, and our mingled blood has flowed. Full well we know that underneath that mask Of cool indifference there beats a heart, Grim as your own gaunt ships when duty calls, Yet warm and gentle as your summer skies: A Nation's heart that beats throughout a land Where Kings may be beloved, and Monarchy Can teach Republics how they may be free. Ah! What has England done? When came the call, She counted not the cost, but gave her all! Vilda Sauvage Owens By permission of the Author |
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