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VIII. | VIII. ON THE PIER OF BOULOGNE |
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VIII. ON THE PIER OF BOULOGNE
(A Reminiscence of 1870)
A venal singer to a thrumming noteChanted the civic war-song, that red flower
Of melody seized in a sudden hour
75
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!
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