I
A man stood stained! France was one Alp of hate,
Pressing upon him with its iron weight.
In all the circle of the ancient sun,
There was no voice to speak for him—not one.
In all the world of men there was no sound
But of a sword flung broken to the ground.
“‘Tis done!” they said, “unless a felon soul
Can tear the leaves out of the Judgment Scroll.”
Hell laughed a little season, then behold