Africa

Thou art not dead, although the spoiler’s hand Lies heavy as death upon thee; though the wrath Of its accursed might is in thy path And has usurped thy children of their land; Though yet the scourges of a monstrous band Roam on thy ruined fields, thy trampled lanes, Thy ravaged homes and desolated fanes; Thou art not dead, but sleeping,—Motherland. A mighty country, valorous and free, Thou shalt outlive this terror and this pain; Shall call thy scattered children back to thee, Strong with the memory of their brothers slain; And rise from out thy charnel house to be Thine own immortal, brilliant self again!