The almond groves of Samarcand, Bokhara, where red lilies blow, And Oxus, by whose yellow sand The grave white-turbaned merchants go;
And on from thence to Ispahan, The gilded garden of the sun, Whence the long dusty caravan Brings cedar and vermilion;
And that dread city of Cabool Set at the mountain's scarpèd feet, Whose marble tanks are ever full With water for the noonday heat,
Where through the narrow straight Bazaar A little maid Circasian Is led, a present from the Czar Unto some old and bearded khan,--
Here have our wild war-eagles flown, And flapped wide wings in fiery flight; But the sad dove, that sits alone In England--she hath no delight.
In vain the laughing girl will lean To greet her love with love-lit eyes: Down in some treacherous black ravine, Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.
And many a moon and sun will see The lingering wistful children wait To climb upon their father's knee; And in each house made desolate
Pale women who have lost their lord Will kiss the relics of the slain-- Some tarnished epaulette--some sword-- Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain.
For not in quiet English fields Are these, our brothers, lain to rest, Where we might deck their broken shields With all the flowers the dead love best.
For some are by the Delhi walls, And many in the Afghan land, And many where the Ganges falls Through seven mouths of shifting sand.
And some in Russian waters lie, And others in the seas which are The portals to the East, or by The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar.
O wandering graves! O restless sleep! O silence of the sunless day! O still ravine! O stormy deep! Give up your prey! Give up your prey!
And those whose wounds are never healed, Whose weary race is never won, O Cromwell's England! must thou yield For every inch of ground a son?
Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head, Change thy glad song to song of pain; Wind and wild wave have got thy dead, And will not yield them back again.
Wave and wild wind and foreign shore Possess the flower of English land-- Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more, Hands that shall never clasp thy hand.
What profit now that we have bound The whole round world with nets of gold, If hidden in our heart is found The care that groweth never old?