SHYLY expectant, gazing up at Her, They linger, Gaul and Briton, side by side: Death they know well, for daily have they died, Spending their boyhood ever bravelier; They wait: here is no priest or chorister, Birds skirt the stricken tower, terrified; Desolate, empty, is the Eastertide, Yet still they wait, watching the Babe and Her. Broken, the Mother stoops: the brutish foe Hurled with dull hate his bolts, and down She swayed, Down, till She saw the toiling swarms below,— Platoons, guns, transports, endlessly arrayed: "Women are woe for them! let Me be theirs, And comfort them, and hearken all their prayers!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO -, WITH A ROSE by SIDNEY LANIER THE BALLAD OF CHRISTMAS by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE BIRTHDAY OF DANIEL WEBSTER by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES THE DARK MAN by NORA (CHESSON) HOPPER THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY [1621] by MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON |