TO M. GEORGES CLEMENCEAU.
Strong son of France, whose words were ever lit
By lightning flashes of ironic wit;
More fond of power than of pelf or place,
Eternal foeman of the mean and base,
And always ready in a righteous cause
To suffer odium and contemn applause—
Men call you still the "tiger," but the name
Has long outworn the faintest hint of blame,
Since in your country's direst hour of need
You have revealed your true heroic breed;
A tiger—yes, to enemies and Huns,
But trusted, idolised, by France's sons.
So when of late a traitor's felon blow
Was like to lay you, old and ailing, low,
And France was sorely stricken in her Chief,
The wide world shared her anguish—and relief;
For the assassin, resolute to kill,
Was foiled by your indomitable will.
Immortal France! she cannot spare you yet,
Till you have paid in full your filial debt,
And by the great Redemption and Release
Stamped Victory with the final seal of Peace.
