 | [Poems by Wilde in] Richard Henry Wilde |  |
103
FRAGMENT I
Who knows not that of late, though patient long,
And loving peace, till peace herself grew vile,
Our country raised at length her battle song,
And hurled defiance to the haughty isle,
That still with open force, or secret guile,
Urges reluctant nations to prolong
The flame that lights their own funereal pile,
Claiming from power the right of doing wrong,
Owning no law save such as suits the strong?
And loving peace, till peace herself grew vile,
Our country raised at length her battle song,
And hurled defiance to the haughty isle,
That still with open force, or secret guile,
Urges reluctant nations to prolong
The flame that lights their own funereal pile,
Claiming from power the right of doing wrong,
Owning no law save such as suits the strong?
Who knows not, too, how many a gallant band,
Such as e'en Sparta's self were proud to own,
Rushed to the summons, seized the glittering brand,
Ere the first spirit-stirring trump had blown,
Eager their country's injuries to atone,
And all her glory, all her danger share:
For who that hears my rude harp's faltering tone,
Had not some brother, friend, or kinsman there,
To claim full oft a wish, a sigh, a prayer?
Such as e'en Sparta's self were proud to own,
Rushed to the summons, seized the glittering brand,
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Eager their country's injuries to atone,
And all her glory, all her danger share:
For who that hears my rude harp's faltering tone,
Had not some brother, friend, or kinsman there,
To claim full oft a wish, a sigh, a prayer?
I too had once a brother! He was there
Among the foremost, bravest of the brave:
For him this lay was framed with fruitless care;
Sisters for him the sigh in secret gave;
For him a mother poured the fervent prayer—
But sigh or prayer availeth not to save!
A generous victim in a villain's snare,
He found a bloody, but inglorious grave,
And never nobler heart was reached by baser [glaive]!
Among the foremost, bravest of the brave:
For him this lay was framed with fruitless care;
Sisters for him the sigh in secret gave;
For him a mother poured the fervent prayer—
But sigh or prayer availeth not to save!
A generous victim in a villain's snare,
He found a bloody, but inglorious grave,
And never nobler heart was reached by baser [glaive]!
| [Poems by Wilde in] Richard Henry Wilde | |