By Ethel M. Pope:

Tragedy of Moharram

Gold moonbeam shed their misty light

O’er a saddened world;

To sound of deepest funeral dirge.

Islam’s banner is unfurled,

With slow and measured step, ‘tis borne,

Aloft amid the throng,

The emblem of a mighty hand

E’er raised to right a wrong,

In by-gone days its silken folds,

Waved proudly in Iran;

From Continent to Continent,

The Arab symbol ran.

Its path was marked by victory,

The triumph of the right;

Till darkest Africa’s heathen hands,

Were bathed in purest light.

That day of happiness is gone;

No more in ecstasy borne,

The banner heads a sobbing throng;

Whose duty is to mourn.

The loss of him beloved by all

A hero without stain,

Whose noble sacrifice has made

The world ring with his name

With open hand he gave his all;

His little children dear

Brothers, friends – helpless women too,

Cling to him in fear,

Unflinchingly, nor moved nor wept,

Secure in his just cause,

He nobly fought and nobly died,

To save Islam’s great laws.

All the memory of martyrdom

A new the passions rise;

A bitter, sobbing, wailing cry,

Goes up unto the skies;

With each new year the latent grief,

Pent up, breaks out again,

And Heaven returns the impassioned cry,

Husain, Husain, Husain!