XLIV.

And yet France loved thee--loved thy daring flight, Thy mighty genius--thy creative power; The soldier’s idol and the hind’s delight-- For ’twas the people made thee like a tower That topt all Nations! In thy happier hour A glorious code thou gav’st. Thy sway was just To France--thy monuments a deathless dower. No luxury turned thy energies to rust. A Conqueror why become? why serve Ambition’s lust?