Classic Poem

A victory at last! and over France
There runs a sound as of a sudden sigh,
A low tumultuous inarticulate cry,
As when one wakeneth with a startled glance
While yet the fiends of some dream-vision dance,
Retaining devilish might to terrify,
Across his brain, and meets the quiet eye
Of watchful woman, sees her steps advance.

And, as he sigheth low for sheer relief,
And longeth for the cool clear lips of day,
So with one victory vanisheth away
From France the nervous nightmare of her grief,
And, by the bedside, stands her chosen chief —
The young Republic — in the morning grey.