Viii. On The Pier Of Boulogne

(A Reminiscence of 1870)

A venal singer to a thrumming note Chanted the civic war-song, that red flower Of melody seized in a sudden hour By frenzied winds of change, and borne afloat A live light in the storm; and now by rote To a cold crowd, while vague and sad the tide Loomed after sunset and the grey gulls cried, The verses quavered from a hireling throat. Wherefore should English eyes their right forbear, Or droop for smitten France? let the tossed sou, Before they turn, be quittance for the stare. O Lady, who, clear-voiced, with impulse true To lift that cry “To Arms!” alone would dare, My heart received a golden alms from you!