All fiery danger of the earth and air,
Forgive us, France, our hesitating years!
Quenchless as thine own spirit is our trust
That thou shalt spring resurgent, like the brave
Pure plume of Bayard, from the blood and dust
Of this grim combat-to-the-utterance,
Fresh as the foambow of the charging wave,
O plume of Europe, proud and delicate France!
TO BELGIUM
CROWNED WITH THORNS
Thou that a brave, brief space didst keep the gate