Classic Poem

FRANCE .

We see thee in thy many-bastioned Plessis,
Tortured by mental pangs beyond all healing,
Abject before thy leaden virgins kneeling,
Praying and weeping as grim death progresses.

Fearing thy son, yet loving his caresses,
Suspicious tyrant, in thy hard heart stealing,
Dawns there no tender thought, no Christian feeling,
For all the guileless folk thy hand oppresses?

Nay, thou hast care but for the crown thou 'rt wearing;
Pity would rob thy power of its ascendant;
And still the horrid rack goes on unsparing. . . .
Astounded Death has found a new intendant;
Touraine resounds with sighing and despairing,
And thou canst count a corpse from each tree pendent.