1915
Weep for our dead! but more our honor weep!
Thrown on the Irish coast their bodies drift
Homeless and stark, and, moving, weakly lift
An idle arm from their eternal sleep,
Where once our infant navy rocked the deep
In our first years. Ay me! their ocean shrift!
Up from the gray sea through day's rosy rift
What dread alarums to our new world leap!
So shook the hills above, seas underneath,
When Roland wound the blast of Roncesvalles
And roused Christ's ancient world with dying breath
Answer, O France, where the vast Russias fall!
Flock, England, to the harvest homes of death!
! again, that Lusitanian call!
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