SONNET X
THE CHARGE OF THE PEERS' BRIGADE
“Noble six hundred!”
—Tennyson.
Asquith's five hundred Peers! Brave souls who stoop
When Redmond foams with slaughterous intent
To be his serving-men: bold warriors bent
Like reeds when Dillon's Irish curse and hoop.
Weighted with unctuous phrases till they droop,
Chaste flowers of choicest Nonconformist scent,
May not their robes be splashed, their ermine rent?
Hell's scorn may greet and blast the godly troop.
Think how tumultuous England will deride,
Think how our kindred o'er the seas will jeer,
As each proud noble marches to his place,
His belly puffed with hopes, his brain with pride,
His past anonymous, his future clear,
Gold in his hands, and Judas in his face!
December 13, 1910.
