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,