THE seed you sowed of death and hate Are bearing fruit now at your gate. The crimson dusk of ruin stains Your mosques and minarets and fanes. Your star grows dim, your crescent wanes And Vengeance marches on your plains. Your towers stand on cursed ground. The Drums of God, Islam, resound, And in their graves a martyred host From Crete to the Dalmatian Coast Awake and damn you from the tomb; The babe stabbed in the mother's womb, The virgin spoiled, the gray-beard slain Defending hearth and seed in vain; The spirits of the men you smote, Armenian, Albanian, Croat, The ghosts of Greece and Macedon Will guide the ship and aim the gun And guard the sleep and point the path For them who come to do God's wrath. |