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 Thou set thy foot where England's used to stand! Thou reach thy rod forth over Indian land! Slave of the slaves that call thee lord, and weak As their foul tongues who praise thee! son of them Whose presence put the snows and stars to shame In centuries dead and damned that reek below Curse‑consecrated, crowned with crime and flame, To them that bare thee like them shalt thou go Forth of man's life—a leper white as snow.

Call for clear water, wash thine hands, be clean, Cry, What is truth? O Pilate; thou shalt know Haply too soon, and gnash thy teeth for woe Ere the outer darkness take thee round unseen That hides the red ghosts of thy race obscene Bound nine times round with hell's most dolorous flow, And in its pools thy crownless head lie low By his of Spain who dared an English queen