On the Irish Evictions

As when a haunting sense of personal shame
Broods, a grim night-hag, on a sleeper’s soul,
Who sees and hears, yet vainly would control
Some monstrous deed enacted in his name,
Albeit he loathes it—till with heart aflame
He bursts the hideous bondage of his sleep;
So feel we now, who sit at home and weep
At this dark blot on our fair England’s fame.
Shall they who for their outraged homes have fought,
As Englishmen who fight, ay, nobly and well,
Be flung like felons into prison-cell?
Shall these curst deeds month after month be wrought
By English hands? Speak, England! Let us break
The spell of this foul dream. Arise, awake!