Victor Hugo.
By Eric Mackay
Victor the King! alive to-day, not dead!
Behold, I bring thee with a subject's hand
A poor pale wreath, the best at my command,
But all unfit to deck so grand a head.
It is the outcome of a neighbour land
Denounced of thee, and spurn'd for many years.
It is the token of a nation's tears
Which oft has joy'd in thee, and shall again.
Love for thy hate, applause for thy disdain, -
These are the flowers we spread upon thy hearse.
We give thee back, to-day, thy poet-curse;
We call thee friend; we ratify thy reign.
Kings change their sceptres for a funeral stone,
But thou hast turn'd thy tomb into a throne!