That served, and loved, and put in her their trust.
Frenchmen! the dead accuse you from the dust—
Brows laurelled—bosoms marked with many a scar
For France—that wore her Legion’s noblest star,
Cast dumb reproaches from the field of Death
On Gallic honour; and this broken faith
Has robbed you more of Fame—the life of life,—
Than twenty battles lost in glorious strife!
And what of England—Is she steeped so low
In poverty, crest-fallen, and palsied so,