Victor Hugo.

Victor the King! alive to-day, not dead! Behold, I bring thee with a subject's hand A poor pale wreath, the best at my command, But all unfit to deck so grand a head. It is the outcome of a neighbour land Denounced of thee, and spurn'd for many years. It is the token of a nation's tears Which oft has joy'd in thee, and shall again. Love for thy hate, applause for thy disdain,— These are the flowers we spread upon thy hearse. We give thee back, to-day, thy poet-curse; We call thee friend; we ratify thy reign. Kings change their sceptres for a funeral stone, But thou hast turn'd thy tomb into a throne!