Page:Writings of Oscar Wilde - Volume 01.djvu/71

Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead
 To vex their solemn slumber so:
Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head,
 Up the steep road must England go,

Yet when this fiery web is spun,
 Her watchmen shall decry from far
The young Republic like a sun
 Rise from these crimson seas of war.