Was it for this, men of '14,
That (hearing a Teuton plague had spread
As locusts o'er a country green
And peaceful) you in thousands sped
To that dread task you most abjured,
Thinking so only England kept her word?

Was it that o'er a starving foe
England should sing a hymn of hate
Whereby to drown the wail of woe
Raised by these millions scourged of Fate:
Was it for this, O friends of mine,
With sad strong steps you walked death's dark decline?

Was it that one, whose constant lust
For power and praise no scruple curbed,
Should bleed a body lain in dust
And lead your country unperturbed
To that corrupt, fear-stricken court
Where Vengeance makes men's mortal woes her sport?

Was it to plant your patient feet
Upon the helpless necks of those
Who, long betrayed by power effete,
Took desperate courage and arose
Seeking for peace like men distraught:
Was it to bring again their slavery you fought?

O lightly buried friends of mine!
O bodies torn! O spirits rent!
If you had lived to this decline,
Would you have cursed the sacrament
You made when, for the world's goodwill,
You " leapt upon the spears" those pledges to fulfil?

Walk not among us, unseen dead,
Surely your ears are stopped with clay;
Haunt not the evil paths we tread
Who now your plighted words unsay.
We have drunk poison since you died;
For in your name the wells of truth were dried.

Yet come! Come! Come as a host
Of fiery, conscience-smiting tongues:
Sear the foul lips of those who boast
Of justice, to condone these wrongs:
O ghosts heroic, smite again!
That we may find ourselves not beasts, but men.