Read with annotations and highlights on Textopian.
You thought because we held, my lord, / An ancient cause and strong, / That therefore we maligned the sword: / My lord, you did us wrong.
We also know the sacred height / Up on Tugela side, / Where those three hundred fought with Beit / And fair young Wernher died.
The daybreak on the failing force, / The final sabres drawn: / Tall Goltman, silent on his horse, / Superb against the dawn.
The little mound where Eckstein stood / And gallant Albu fell, / And Oppenheim, half blind with blood, / Went fording through the rising flood -- / My Lord, we know them well.
The little empty homes forlorn, / The ruined synagogues that mourn, / In Frankfort and Berlin; / We knew them when the peace was torn -- / We of a nobler lineage born -- / And now by all the gods of scorn / We mean to rub them in.