Here you will find the Poem A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XVII of poet Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
For lo! the nations, the imperial nations Of Europe, all imagine a vain thing, Sitting thus blindly in their generations, Serving an idol for their God and King. Blindly they rage together, worshipping Their lusts of cunning, and their lusts of gold; Trampling the hearts of all too weak to bring Alms to their Baal which is bought and sold. And lo! there is no refuge, none but Baal For man's best help, and the mute recreant earth Drinks in its children's blood, and hears their wail, And deals no vengeance on its last foul birth; And there is found no hand to ward or keep The weak from wrong, and Pity is asleep.
