The pacts and leagues to murder by delays,
And the dumb throngs that on the deaf thrones gaze;
The common loveless lust of territory;
The lips that only babble of their mart,
While to the night the shrieking hamlets blaze;
The bought allegiance, and the purchased praise,
False honour, and shameful glory;--
Of all the evil whereof this is part,
How weary is our heart,
How weary is our heart these many days!

Another poem I cite in full, not for its power and beauty, but as a
curiosity. I do not think it has been remembered that in the _New
Poems_ of 1909 Mr. Watson published a poem of Hate some years
before the Teutonic hymn became famous. It is worth reading again,
because it so exactly expresses the cold reserve of the Anglo-Saxon,
in contrast with the sentimentality of the German. There is, of
course, no indication that its author had Germany in mind.

HATE

(To certain foreign detractors)

Sirs, if the truth must needs be told,
We love not you that rail and scold;
And, yet, my masters, you may wait
Till the Greek Calends for our hate.

No spendthrifts of our hate are we;
Our hate is used with husbandry.