Classic Poem

FRANCE .

The Louvre, guarded to its outer gate,
 Bristles with halberds; the great culverin
Booms o'er the town; deep-lunged and desolate,
 The iron tocsin clangs o'er flame and din;

While thou, pale king, nurtured by gall and hate,
 Pantest within thine alcove, when begin
 The monstrous murders, offspring of thy sin,
Staining with infamy thy crown and state.

On that mad, tigerish night of pain and loss,
 How was thy sleep, King? Were thine eyes not wet
With fiercest tears as on thy couch didst toss?
 Didst thou not see, in dreams of vast regret,
A Huguenot Christ nailed to a martyr's cross
 Flooding thy France in drops of bloody sweat?