We own thy prowess; for we've learnt by rote
Song after song of thine; and thou art great.
But why this malice? Why this wanton note
Which seems to come like lava from thy throat?
VI.
When Hugo spoke we owned his master-spell;
We knew he feared us more than he contemned.
He fleck'd with fire each sentence as it fell,
And tolled his rancours like a wedding-bell.
VII.