THE SHAME OF FRANCE. So then, our wildest fears were
true ! The incredible disgrace : A darker shame than erst she knew Bows France's downcast face. The forger, and the forger's tool, The thrice-convicted liar, The slave, the bigot, and the fool Have wrought their souls' desire.
Time's blotted scroll we vainly seek For such a deed as this,
Since to Messiah's hallowed cheek Clung Judas' snaky kiss :
That crime, by which all crimes are nought, Is treason's type for aye : The field Iscariot's silver bought Lies empty to this day.
But we have wavering Pilates yet To wash their trembling hands, While round their judgment hall are set
The Praetor's armad bands;
Who, from his ringing courts below, The scornful challenge send, " Lo, if thou let this fellow go Thou art not Cmsar's friend."
Yea, and those pallid priests are there, To watch their victim die, Who thronged so thick on Pilate's stair, And shouted " Crucify !"
Who from the shrines their feet defiled Their ignorant flocks inflamed : And, in their Master's name, reviled His brethren, unashamed.
Degenerate France, are these thy gods ?
Thou nurse of heroes dead !
And bleeding 'neath such hireling rods, Thine ancient spirit fled ?
Soon shall thy house be desolate, Where thou shalt cowering hide, And mourn, in tears of blood, too late Thy madness and thy pride.
EDWARD SYDNEY TYLEE.