MOTHER EGYPT.
Dedicated to England on her invasion of North Africa.
Dark browed, she broods with weary lidsBeside her Sphinx and Pyramids,With low and never-lifted head.If she be dead, respect the dead;If she be weeping, let her weep;If she be sleeping, let her sleep;For lo, this woman named the stars!She suckled at her tawny dugsYour Moses while you reeked in warsAnd prowled your woods, nude, painted thugs.Then back, brave England; back in peaceTo Christian isles of fat increase!Go back! Else bid your high priests bearThe sword and curse the sweet plowshare;Take down their cross from proud Saint Paul’sAnd coin it into cannon-balls!You tent not far from Nazareth,Your camps trench where his child-feet strayed.If Christ had seen this work of death!If Christ had seen these ships invade!I think the patient Christ had said,“Go back, brave men! Take up your dead;Draw down your great ships to the seas;Repass the gates of Hercules;Go back to wife with babe at breast,And leave lorn Egypt to her rest.”Or is Christ dead, as Egypt is?Ah, England, hear me yet again;There’s something grimly wrong in this—So like some gray, sad woman slain.What would you have your mother do?Hath she not done enough for you?Go back! And when you learn to read,Come read this obelisk. Her deedLike yonder awful forehead isDisdainful silence. Like to thisWhat lessons have you writ in stoneTo passing nations that shall stand?Why, years, as hers, will leave you loneAnd level as yon yellow sand.Saint George? Your lions? Whence are they?From awful, silent Africa.This Egypt is the lion’s lair;Beware, brave Albion, beware!I feel the very Nile should riseTo drive you from this sacrifice.And if the seven plagues should come?The red seas swallow sword and steed?Lo! Christian lands stand mute and dumbTo see thy more than Moslem deed.
Dark browed, she broods with weary lidsBeside her Sphinx and Pyramids,With low and never-lifted head.If she be dead, respect the dead;If she be weeping, let her weep;If she be sleeping, let her sleep;For lo, this woman named the stars!She suckled at her tawny dugsYour Moses while you reeked in warsAnd prowled your woods, nude, painted thugs.Then back, brave England; back in peaceTo Christian isles of fat increase!Go back! Else bid your high priests bearThe sword and curse the sweet plowshare;Take down their cross from proud Saint Paul’sAnd coin it into cannon-balls!You tent not far from Nazareth,Your camps trench where his child-feet strayed.If Christ had seen this work of death!If Christ had seen these ships invade!I think the patient Christ had said,“Go back, brave men! Take up your dead;Draw down your great ships to the seas;Repass the gates of Hercules;Go back to wife with babe at breast,And leave lorn Egypt to her rest.”Or is Christ dead, as Egypt is?Ah, England, hear me yet again;There’s something grimly wrong in this—So like some gray, sad woman slain.What would you have your mother do?Hath she not done enough for you?Go back! And when you learn to read,Come read this obelisk. Her deedLike yonder awful forehead isDisdainful silence. Like to thisWhat lessons have you writ in stoneTo passing nations that shall stand?Why, years, as hers, will leave you loneAnd level as yon yellow sand.Saint George? Your lions? Whence are they?From awful, silent Africa.This Egypt is the lion’s lair;Beware, brave Albion, beware!I feel the very Nile should riseTo drive you from this sacrifice.And if the seven plagues should come?The red seas swallow sword and steed?Lo! Christian lands stand mute and dumbTo see thy more than Moslem deed.
Dark browed, she broods with weary lidsBeside her Sphinx and Pyramids,With low and never-lifted head.If she be dead, respect the dead;If she be weeping, let her weep;If she be sleeping, let her sleep;For lo, this woman named the stars!She suckled at her tawny dugsYour Moses while you reeked in warsAnd prowled your woods, nude, painted thugs.
Dark browed, she broods with weary lids
Beside her Sphinx and Pyramids,
With low and never-lifted head.
If she be dead, respect the dead;
If she be weeping, let her weep;
If she be sleeping, let her sleep;
For lo, this woman named the stars!
She suckled at her tawny dugs
Your Moses while you reeked in wars
And prowled your woods, nude, painted thugs.
Then back, brave England; back in peaceTo Christian isles of fat increase!Go back! Else bid your high priests bearThe sword and curse the sweet plowshare;Take down their cross from proud Saint Paul’sAnd coin it into cannon-balls!You tent not far from Nazareth,Your camps trench where his child-feet strayed.If Christ had seen this work of death!If Christ had seen these ships invade!
Then back, brave England; back in peace
To Christian isles of fat increase!
Go back! Else bid your high priests bear
The sword and curse the sweet plowshare;
Take down their cross from proud Saint Paul’s
And coin it into cannon-balls!
You tent not far from Nazareth,
Your camps trench where his child-feet strayed.
If Christ had seen this work of death!
If Christ had seen these ships invade!
I think the patient Christ had said,“Go back, brave men! Take up your dead;Draw down your great ships to the seas;Repass the gates of Hercules;Go back to wife with babe at breast,And leave lorn Egypt to her rest.”Or is Christ dead, as Egypt is?Ah, England, hear me yet again;There’s something grimly wrong in this—So like some gray, sad woman slain.
I think the patient Christ had said,
“Go back, brave men! Take up your dead;
Draw down your great ships to the seas;
Repass the gates of Hercules;
Go back to wife with babe at breast,
And leave lorn Egypt to her rest.”
Or is Christ dead, as Egypt is?
Ah, England, hear me yet again;
There’s something grimly wrong in this—
So like some gray, sad woman slain.
What would you have your mother do?Hath she not done enough for you?Go back! And when you learn to read,Come read this obelisk. Her deedLike yonder awful forehead isDisdainful silence. Like to thisWhat lessons have you writ in stoneTo passing nations that shall stand?Why, years, as hers, will leave you loneAnd level as yon yellow sand.
What would you have your mother do?
Hath she not done enough for you?
Go back! And when you learn to read,
Come read this obelisk. Her deed
Like yonder awful forehead is
Disdainful silence. Like to this
What lessons have you writ in stone
To passing nations that shall stand?
Why, years, as hers, will leave you lone
And level as yon yellow sand.
Saint George? Your lions? Whence are they?From awful, silent Africa.This Egypt is the lion’s lair;Beware, brave Albion, beware!I feel the very Nile should riseTo drive you from this sacrifice.And if the seven plagues should come?The red seas swallow sword and steed?Lo! Christian lands stand mute and dumbTo see thy more than Moslem deed.
Saint George? Your lions? Whence are they?
From awful, silent Africa.
This Egypt is the lion’s lair;
Beware, brave Albion, beware!
I feel the very Nile should rise
To drive you from this sacrifice.
And if the seven plagues should come?
The red seas swallow sword and steed?
Lo! Christian lands stand mute and dumb
To see thy more than Moslem deed.