What will there be to remember
Of us in the days to be —
Whose fate was a trodden ember
And even our doubt not free?
Parliaments built of paper,
And the soft swords of gold
That twist like a waxen taper
In the weak aggressor's hold.
A hush around Hunger slaying,
A city of serfs unfed —
What shall we leave for saying
To praise us when we are dead?