To a Certain Nation
The Speaker, January 7, 1899



"The tone of the English Press is resented."- DAILY PAPER.

We cannot let thee be: for thou art ours-
We thank thee still, though thou forgets these things,
For that hour's sake when thou didst wake all powers
With a great cry that God was sick of kings.

Leave thee there grovelling at their rusted greaves,
These hulking cowards on a painted stage
That with imperial pomp and laurel leaves
Show their Marengo- one man in a cage.

These, for whom stands no type or title given
In all the squalid tales of gore and pelf,
Though cowed with crashing thunders from all heaven
Cain never said, "My brother slew himself."

Bear with us, O our sister- not in pride
Nor any scorn we see thee spoiled of knaves
Only with shame to hear, where Danton died
Thy foul dead kings all laughing in their graves.

Thou hast a right to rule thyself; to be
The thing thou wilt, to grin, to fawn, to creep,
To crown thee clumsy liars- aye and we
Who knew thee once- we have a right to weep.