1915 (Weep for our dead! but more…)

Weep for our dead! but more our honor weep! Thrown on the Irish coast their bodies drift Homeless and stark, and, moving, weakly lift An idle arm from their eternal sleep, Where once our infant navy rocked the deep In our first years. Ay me! their ocean shrift! Up from the gray sea through day's rosy rift What dread alarums to our new world leap!

So shook the hills above, seas underneath, When Roland wound the blast of Roncesvalles And roused Christ's ancient world with dying breath Answer, O France, where the vast Russias fall! Flock, England, to the harvest homes of death! Harken! again, that Lusitanian call!