Sees the first streak of the clear-eyed morning

As it broadening stands

Over ravaged lands

Where mad nations are

Locked in grip of fratricidal war.

Castles burn upon the vine-clad knolls,

Huts glow smouldering in the trampled meadows;

[42]

And a hecatomb of martyred souls

Fills a queenly town with wail of widows

In those branded hours

When red-guttering showers

Splash by courts and stews

To the Bells of Saint Bartholomew's.

Seed that's sown upon the wanton wind

Shall be harvested in whirlwind rages,

For revenge and hate bring forth their kind,

And black crime must ever be the wages

Of a nation's crime

Time transmits to time,

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