III.

I whom you fed with shame and starved with woe,

I wheel above you,

Your fatal vulture, for I hate you so,

I almost love you!

I smell your ruin out. I light and croak

My sombre lore,

As swaggering you go by, O heart of oak

Rotten to the core!

Look westward! Ireland's vengeful eyes are cast

On freedom won.

Look eastward! India stirs from sleep at last.

You are undone!

Look southward, where Australia hears your voice,

And turns away!

O brutal hypocrite, she makes her choice

With the rising day!

Foul Esau, you who sold your high birthright

For gilded mud,

Who did the wrong and, priestlike, called it right,

And swindled God!

The hour is gone of insult, pain and patience;

The hour is come

When they arise, the faithful mightier nations,

To drag you down!