Out of the East came a piercing cry:
"'Tis you in your safe retreat who die!
Alive are the sons of France to-day,
O'er the British fleet death holds no sway,
Russia's arms, and Italy's brave,
The valor of Belgium strong to save,
These the immortal standards bear,
You are the dead men over there
In the land made free by the blood of France,
Boasting the Briton's inheritance,
Strong with the strength of every land,
Your fair flag droops in a nerveless hand."
At dawn I rose with my soul aflame,
And I flashed this message across the deep:
"With the living nations enroll my name!
Brothers, we waken from our sleep;
From stately mansion and workshop small,
From mine and mill and college hall,
From mountain and valley and river town,
Men of this nation are winding down.
Sons of France, we will fight to-day!
Fight for the debt we long to pay,
Fight for the valiant British fleet
Guarding our nation from defeat."
And when at last on some glorious morn,
The Peace of a ransomed world is born,
And immortal standards in triumph wave,
