JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN

Their blood on thy head, whom the Afric waste

Saw struggling, puppets with unwilful hand,

Brother and brother: their bought souls shall brand

Thine own with horror. Be thy name erased

From the full mouth of men; nor be there traced

To thee one glory to thy parent land;

But'fore us, as'fore God e'er do thou stand

In that thy deed forevermore disgraced.

Where lie the sons and husbands, where those dear

That thy curst craft hath lost? Their drops of blood,

One by one fallen, and many a cadenced tear,

With triple justice weighted trebly dread,

Shall each, rolled onward in a burning flood,

Crush thy dark soul. Their blood be on thy head!