What profits it, O England, to prevail <br /> In camp and mart and council, and bestrew <br /> With argosies thy oceans, and renew <br /> With tribute levied on each golden gale <br /> Thy treasuries, if thou canst hear the wail <br /> Of women martyred by the turbaned crew, <br /> Whose tenderest mercy was the sword that slew, <br /> And lift no hand to wield the purging flail? <br /> We deemed of old thou held'st a charge from Him <br /> Who watches girdled by his seraphim, <br /> To smite the wronger with thy destined rod. <br /> Wait'st thou his sign? Enough, the unanswered cry <br /> Of virgin souls for vengeance, and on high <br /> The gathering blackness of the frown of God!<br /><br />William Watson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-turk-in-armenia/
