Turned all those tears to flame, Even upon these, when breaks the extreme blow And all the world cries woe, When heaven reluctant rains long-suffering fire On these and their desire, When his wind shakes them and his waters whelm Who rent thy robe and realm, When they that poured thy dear blood forth as wine Pour forth their own for thine, On these, on these have mercy: not in hate, But full of sacred fate, Strong from the shrine and splendid from the god, Smite, with no second rod. Because they spared not, do thou rather spare: Be not one thing they were. Let not one tongue of theirs who hate thee say That thou wast even as they. Because their hands were bloody, be thine white; Show light where they shed night: Because they are foul, be thou the rather pure; Because they are feeble, endure; Because they had no pity, have thou pity. And thou, O supreme city, O priestless Rome that shall be, take in trust Their names, their deeds, their dust, Who held life less than thou wert; be the least To thee indeed a priest, Priest and burnt-offering and blood-sacrifice Given without prayer or price, A holier immolation than men wist, A costlier eucharist, A sacrament more saving; bend thine head Above these many dead Once, and salute with thine eternal eyes Their lowest head that lies. Speak from thy lips of immemorial speech If but one word for each. Kiss but one kiss on each thy dead son's mouth Fallen dumb or north or south. And laying but once thine hand on brow and breast, Bless them, through whom thou art blest. And saying in ears of these thy dead, "Well done," Shall they not hear "O son"? And bowing thy face to theirs made pale for thee, Shall the shut eyes not see? Yea, through the hollow-hearted world of death, As light, as blood, as breath, Shall there not flash and flow the fiery sense, The pulse of prescience? Shall not these know as in times overpast Thee loftiest to the last? For times and wars shall change, kingdoms and creeds, And dreams of men, and deeds; Earth shall grow grey with all her golden things, Pale peoples and hoar kings; But though her thrones and towers of nations fall, Death has no part in all; In the air, nor in the imperishable sea, Nor heaven, nor truth, nor thee. Yea, let all sceptre-stricken nations lie, But live thou though they die; Let their flags fade as flowers that storm can mar, But thine be like a star; Let England's, if it float not for men free, Fall, and forget the sea; Let France's, if it shadow a hateful head, Drop as a leaf drops dead; Thine let what storm soever smite the rest