A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XVII

For lo! the nations, the imperial nations
Of Europe, all imagine a vain thing,
Sitting thus blindly in their generations,
Serving an idol for their God and King.
Blindly they rage together, worshipping
Their lusts of cunning, and their lusts of gold;
Trampling the hearts of all too weak to bring
Alms to their Baal which is bought and sold.
And lo! there is no refuge, none but Baal
For man's best help, and the mute recreant earth
Drinks in its children's blood, and hears their wail,
And deals no vengeance on its last foul birth;
And there is found no hand to ward or keep
The weak from wrong, and Pity is asleep.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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