F RANCE ! I will think of thee as what thou wast,
When Poictiers show'd her zeal for the true creed;
Or in that age, when Holy Truth, though cast
On a rank soil, yet was a thriving seed,
Thy schools within, from neighbouring countries chased;
E'en of thy pagan day I bear to read,
Thy Martyrs sanctified the guilty host,
The sons of blessed John, rear'd on a western coast.

I dare not think of thee as what thou art,
Lest thoughts too deep for man should trouble me
It is not safe to place the mind and heart
On brink of evil, or its flames to see,
Lest they should dizzy, or some taint impart,
Or to our sin a fascination be.
And so in silence I will now proclaim
Hate of thy present self, and scarce will sound thy name.