Part 29 (1/2)

If none will speak for us, if none will say How far thy muse has wrong'd us in its thought, 'Tis I will do it; I will say thee nay, And hurl thee back the ravings of thy lay.

V.

We own thy prowess; for we've learnt by rote Song after song of thine; and thou art great.

But why this malice? Why this wanton note Which seems to come like lava from thy throat?

VI.

When Hugo spoke we owned his master-spell; We knew he feared us more than he contemned.

He fleck'd with fire each sentence as it fell, And tolled his rancours like a wedding-bell.

VII.

And we were proud of him, as France was proud.

Ay! call'd him brother,--though he lov'd us not; And we were thrill'd when, ruthless from a cloud, The bolt of death outstretch'd him for a shroud.

VIII.

Thou'rt great as he by fame and force of song, But less than he as spokesman of his Land.

For thou hast rail'd at thine, to do it wrong, And call'd it coward though its faith is strong.

IX.

England a coward! O thou five foot five Of flesh and blood and sinew and the rest!

Is she not girt with glory and alive To hear thee buzz thy scorn of all the hive?

X.

Thou art a bee,--a bright, a golden thing With too much honey; and the taste thereof Is sometimes rough, and somewhat of a sting Dwells in the music that we hear thee sing.

XI.

Oh, thou hast wrong'd us; thou hast said of late More than is good for listeners to repeat.

Nay, I have marvell'd at thy words of hate, For friends and foes alike have deem'd us great.

XII.

We are not vile. We, too, have hearts to feel; And not in vain have men remember'd this.

Our hands are quick at times to clasp the steel, And strike the blows that centuries cannot heal.