Classic Poem

An iron folk, with iron hand, and hate
our welcome where we come; driven o'er the earth
in storm of conquest; venturing the salt firth;
homeless, the sword our bride, insatiate:

nor yet that we had sought to make us great
who had dwelt right fain in vales of love and mirth;
but thy dire hest summon'd us at our birth,
thy ministers of evil, consecrate:

thou torturer! to us no gentler god
than we were masters to those slaves; thy rod
was in our hands, but in our hearts the curse

rung back, this night, in mockery of our pangs
where o'er the void dismantled universe
the iron chamber of thine absence hangs.