The Turk In Armenia

What profits it, O England, to prevail
  In camp and mart and council, and bestrew
  With argosies thy oceans, and renew
  With tribute levied on each golden gale
  Thy treasuries, if thou canst hear the wail
  Of women martyred by the turbaned crew,
  Whose tenderest mercy was the sword that slew,
  And lift no hand to wield the purging flail?
  We deemed of old thou held'st a charge from Him
  Who watches girdled by his seraphim,
  To smite the wronger with thy destined rod.
  Wait'st thou his sign? Enough, the unanswered cry
  Of virgin souls for vengeance, and on high
  The gathering blackness of the frown of God!