OUR mightiest in our midst is slain; The mourners weep around, Broken and bowed with bitter pain, And bleeding through his wound. Prostrate, o'erwhelmed, with anguish torn, We cry, great God, for aid; Night fell upon us, even at morn, And we are sore afraid. Afraid of our infirmities, In this, our woeful woe, -- Afraid to breast the bloody seas That hard against us flow. The sword we sheathed, our enemy Has bared, and struck us through; And heart, and soul, and spirit cry, What wilt thou have us do! Be with our country in this grief That lies across her path, Lest that she mourn her martyred chief With an unrighteous wrath. Give her that steadfast faith and trust That look through all, to Thee; And in her mercy keep her just, And through her justice, free. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IDYLL 1. LAMENT FOR ADONIS by BION THE LAST MAN: A RUFFIAN by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES WHERE ARE THE WARRING BRAVE? by JOSIE CRAIG BERRY OBSERVATIONS IN THE ART OF ENGLISH POESY: 15. TROCHAIC VERSE: THE ELEVENTH EPIGRAM by THOMAS CAMPION PERSUASIONS TO JOY: A SONG by THOMAS CAREW LINES UNDER A SUN-DIAL IN THE CHURCH-YARD AT THORNEY by NATHANIEL COTTON UPON THE DEATH OF THE LADY OLIVE STANHOPE by MICHAEL DRAYTON |