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