The bountiful fair land of vine and grain,
     Of wit and grace and ardour, and strong roots,
     Fruits perishable, imperishable fruits;
     Furrowed to likeness of the dim grey main
     Behind the black obliterating cyclone.

     VII

     Behold, the Gods are with her, and are known. 
     Whom they abandon misery persecutes
     No more:  them half-eyed apathy may loan
     The happiness of pitiable brutes. 
     Whom the just Gods abandon have no light,
     No ruthless light of introspective eyes
     That in the midst of misery scrutinize
     The heart and its iniquities outright. 
     They rest, they smile and rest; have earned perchance
     Of ancient service quiet for a term;
     Quiet of old men dropping to the worm;
     And so goes out the soul.  But not of France. 
     She cries for grief, and to the Gods she cries,
     For fearfully their loosened hands chastize,
     And icily they watch the rod’s caress
     Ravage her flesh from scourges merciless,
     But she, inveterate of brain, discerns
     That Pity has as little place as Joy
     Among their roll of gifts; for Strength she yearns. 
     For Strength, her idol once, too long her toy. 
     Lo, Strength is of the plain root-Virtues born: 
     Strength shall ye gain by service, prove in scorn,
     Train by endurance, by devotion shape. 
     Strength is not won by miracle or rape. 
     It is the offspring of the modest years,
     The gift of sire to son, thro’ those firm laws
     Which we name Gods; which are the righteous cause,
     The cause of man, and manhood’s ministers. 
     Could France accept the fables of her priests,
     Who blest her banners in this game of beasts,
     And now bid hope that heaven will intercede
     To violate its laws in her sore need,
     She would find comfort in their opiates: 
     Mother of Reason! can she cheat the Fates? 
     Would she, the champion of the open mind,
     The Omnipotent’s prime gift—­the gift of growth —
     Consent even for a night-time to be blind,
     And sink her soul on the delusive sloth,
     For fruits ethereal and material, both,
     In peril of her place among mankind? 
     The Mother of the many Laughters might
     Call one poor shade of laughter in the light
     Of her unwavering lamp to mark what things
     The world puts faith in, careless of the truth: 
     What silly puppet-bodies danced on strings,
     Attached by credence, we appear in sooth,
     Demanding intercession, direct aid,
     When the whole tragic tale hangs on a broken blade!

     She swung the sword for centuries; in a day
     It slipped her, like a stream cut off from source. 
     She struck a feeble hand, and tried to pray,
     Clamoured of treachery, and had recourse