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<h3> A WAR CHANT </h3>
<p class="poem">
O England! Thy foe hath hated thee long,<br/>
And his hate is a deadly thing;<br/>
It was held in his heart till its growth was strong,<br/>
Now, words have woven it into a song<br/>
For little children to sing.<br/></p>
<p class="poem">
It is hatred that fashioned his shot and shell,<br/>
And hatred hid death in the sea;<br/>
In hatred the cannon have sounded a knell<br/>
O'er the little homes where the peaceful dwell,<br/>
And the humble-hearted be.<br/></p>
<p class="poem">
Thy foe hath swept the blue from the sky<br/>
In a fury of smoke and flame;<br/>
His guns are not stilled where the wounded lie,—<br/>
He hath shown no pity to those who die<br/>
For the glory of his name.<br/></p>
<p class="poem">
He sealed his hate with the blood of his men—<br/>
O, the young in their coats of grey!—<br/>
They are cast aside, and in river, and fen,<br/>
Deep-hidden, where none will find them again<br/>
Till the last white judgment day.<br/></p>
<p class="poem">
Now mirth is forgotten and joy is dead;<br/>
The world hath accepted its pain;<br/>
Still, over old battlefields, newly red,<br/>
The shattered ranks of his army are led<br/>
In pomp and a high disdain.<br/></p>
<p class="poem">
Thy anger grows slowly, for thou art great,<br/>
O England! thou well beloved land;<br/>
When its tide is full-risen, then thou art Fate,—<br/>
And the angel who stands before the gate,<br/>
The sword of flame in his hand!<br/></p>
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