With what white wrath must turn thy bones,
What stern amazement flame thy dust,
To feel so near this England's heart
The outrage of the assassin's thrust.
But surely, too, thou art consoled, --
Who knewest thy stalwart breed so well, --
To see us rise from sloth and go,
Plain and unbragging, through this hell.
And surely, too, thou art assured!
Hark how that grim and gathering beat
Draws upwards from the ends of earth --
The tramp, tramp of thy kindred's feet!
-- Charles G. D. Roberts.
