And an indignant world, transfixed with hate
  Of such disease, cries, as in Herod’s time,
Pointing its finger at her festering state,
  “Room for the leper, and her leprous crime!”
And France, writhing from years of torment, cries
  Out in her anguish, “Let this Jew endure,
Damned and disgraced, vicarious sacrifice. 
  The honour of my army is secure.”

And, vampire-like, that army sucks the blood
  From out a martyr’s veins, and strips his crown
Of honour from him, and his herohood
  Flings in the dust, and cuts his manhood down. 
Hide from your God, O! ye that did this act! 
  With lesser crimes the halls of Hell are paved. 
Your army’s honour may be still intact,
  Unstained, unsoiled, unspotted,—­but unsaved.

  [4] Written after Dreyfus was exiled.

YOUR MIRROR FRAME

Methinks I see your mirror frame,
  Ornate with photographs of them. 
Place mine therein, for, all the same,
  I’ll have my little laughs at them.

For girls may come, and girls may go,
  I think I have the best of them;
And yet this photograph I know
  You’ll toss among the rest of them.

I cannot even hope that you
  Will put me in your locket, dear;
Nor costly frame will I look through,
  Nor bide in your breast pocket, dear.

For none your heart monopolize,
  You favour such a nest of them. 
So I but hope your roving eyes
  Seek mine among the rest of them.

For saucy sprite, and noble dame,
  And many a dainty maid of them
Will greet me in your mirror frame,
  And share your kisses laid on them.

And yet, sometimes I fancy, dear,
  You hold me as the best of them. 
So I’m content if I appear
  To-night with all the rest of them.

THE CITY AND THE SEA

I

To none the city bends a servile knee;
  Purse-proud and scornful, on her heights she stands,
And at her feet the great white moaning sea
  Shoulders incessantly the grey-gold sands,—­
One the Almighty’s child since time began,
  And one the might of Mammon, born of clods;
For all the city is the work of man,
  But all the sea is God’s.

II

And she—­between the ocean and the town—­
  Lies cursed of one and by the other blest: 
Her staring eyes, her long drenched hair, her gown,
  Sea-laved and soiled and dank above her breast. 
She, image of her God since life began,
  She, but the child of Mammon, born of clods,
Her broken body spoiled and spurned of man,
  But her sweet soul is God’s.

FIRE-FLOWERS

And only where the forest fires have sped,
  Scorching relentlessly the cool north lands,
A sweet wild flower lifts its purple head,
And, like some gentle spirit sorrow-fed,
  It hides the scars with almost human hands.