To drunken outcries in her dream that Force
     Needed but hear her shouting to obey. 
     Was she not formed to conquer?  The bright plumes
     Of crested vanity shed graceful nods: 
     Transcendent in her foundries, Arts and looms,
     Had France to fear the vengeance of the Gods? 
     Her faith was on her battle-roll of names
     Sheathed in the records of old war; with dance
     And song she thrilled her warriors and her dames,
     Embracing her Dishonour:  gave him France
     From head to foot, France present and to come,
     So she might hear the trumpet and the drum —
     Bellona and Bacchante! rushing forth
     On yon stout marching Schoolmen of the North.

     Inveterate of brain, well knows she why
     Strength failed her, faithful to himself the first: 
     Her dream is done, and she can read the sky,
     And she can take into her heart the worst
     Calamity to drug the shameful thought
     Of days that made her as the man she served
     A name of terror, but a thing unnerved: 
     Buying the trickster, by the trickster bought,
     She for dominion, he to patch a throne.

     VIII

     Henceforth of her the Gods are known,
     Open to them her breast is laid. 
     Inveterate of brain, heart-valiant,
     Never did fairer creature pant
     Before the altar and the blade!

     IX

     Swift fall the blows, and men upbraid,
     And friends give echo blunt and cold,
     The echo of the forest to the axe. 
     Within her are the fires that wax
     For resurrection from the mould.

     X

     She snatched at heaven’s flame of old,
     And kindled nations:  she was weak: 
     Frail sister of her heroic prototype,
     The Man; for sacrifice unripe,
     She too must fill a Vulture’s beak. 
     Deride the vanquished, and acclaim
     The conqueror, who stains her fame,
     Still the Gods love her, for that of high aim
     Is this good France, the bleeding thing they stripe.

     XI

     She shall rise worthier of her prototype
     Thro’ her abasement deep; the pain that runs
     From nerve to nerve some victory achieves. 
     They lie like circle-strewn soaked Autumn-leaves
     Which stain the forest scarlet, her fair sons! 
     And of their death her life is:  of their blood
     From many streams now urging to a flood,
     No more divided, France shall rise afresh. 
     Of them she learns the lesson of the flesh:-
     The lesson writ in red since first Time ran,
     A hunter hunting down the beast in man: 
     That till the chasing out of its last vice,
     The flesh was fashioned but for sacrifice.