Classic Poem

Not upon thee the shame, not upon thee,
O France, our France, from whose bright loins are sprung
The half of all our sons,—not upon thee
The ignominy of betrayal, vilely wrung
From dotards who would lick the butchering hand,
Drooling of “Honour” while they slit her throat!—
Never for these, cowed traitors, to demand
The right to speak for thee, while thy foes gloat
Upon thy glory eclipsed, thy pride brought low,
Thy homes a shambles and thy soul enchained.
But now, in this thy darkest hour, we know
There stands a remnant that shall purge thy stained
Banner, and above thy martyred dead
See thee uplift again thy sacred head.