The Right of Asylum

EASY the cry while vengeance now is wrought

And from his lair the Anarchist is burned.

“Shut be our harbors, closed be every port

And from our shore be every alien turned.”

Yet while the clamor and the pursuit is hot

And public anger public madness breeds,

Be it not soon nor easily forgot

That England thus an ancient title cedes.

For centuries a pillow hath she spread

For all that widowed goes and wandering

And in her lap hath laid the unhappy head

Or broken Statesman and of outcast King.

Shall she alarmed by that small horde deny

This old sea-haven to world-misery?