Where through the narrow straight Bazaar
A little maid Circasian
Is led, a present from the Czar
Unto some old and bearded khan,--

Here have our wild war-eagles flown,
And flapped wide wings in fiery flight;
But the sad dove, that sits alone
In England--she hath no delight.

In vain the laughing girl will lean
To greet her love with love-lit eyes:
Down in some treacherous black ravine,
Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.

And many a moon and sun will see
The lingering wistful children wait
To climb upon their father's knee;
And in each house made desolate

Pale women who have lost their lord
Will kiss the relics of the slain--
Some tarnished epaulette--some sword--
Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain.

For not in quiet English fields
Are these, our brothers, lain to rest,
Where we might deck their broken shields
With all the flowers the dead love best.