("Ionica," 1877)
Oh lord of high compassion, strong to scorn
Ephemeral monsters, who with tragic pain
Purgest our trivial humours, once again
Through thine own Paris have I roamed, to mourn
For freemen plagued with cant, ere we were born,
For feasts of death, and hatred's harvest wain
Piled high, for princes from proud mothers torn,
And soft despairs hushed in the waves of Seine.
Oh Victor, oh my prophet, wilt thou chide
If Gudule's pangs, and Marion's frustrate plea,
And Gauvrain's promise of a heavenly France,
Thy sadly worshipt creatures, almost died
This evening, for that spring was on the tree,
And April dared in children's eyes to dance?
April 1877.