 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
77
TO A CRIMEAN GENERAL.
Where are my sons? indignant England cries,—Where is mine honour?—O thou sorry chief,
How much of poignant shame and bitter grief
Cling to those askings and their sad replies:
By selfish incapacity betray'd
Under a cloud Britannia's glory lies:
Her soldiery, who fight beneath the shade
Of upas-oligarchy, pine and waste
(O brave brave hearts, though starving, undismay'd!)
For very want at plenty's richest board,
Because contemptuous rank will not make haste
To care for common men! Degenerate Lord,
Too soon hath England heap'd thine honours thus;
Thou shalt account for them to God and us.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |