Matres Dolorosae

Ye Spartan mothers, gentle ones,
Of lion-hearted, loving sons,
Fal'n, the flower of English youth,
To a barbarous foe in a land uncouth:--

O what a delicate sacrifice!
Unequal the stake and costly the price
As when the queen of Love deplor'd
Her darling by the wild-beast gor'd.

They rode to war as if to the hunt,
But ye at home, ye bore the brunt,
Bore the siege of torturing fears,
Fed your hope on the bread of tears.

Proud and spotless warriors they
With love or sword to lead the way;
For ye had cradled heart and hand,
The commander hearken'd to your command.

Ah, weeping mothers, now all is o'er,
Ye know your honour and mourn no more:
Nor ask ye a name in England's story,
Who gave your dearest for her glory.