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Which stirred a little if the low wind did,
A little more, if pilgrims overwept him
And parted the lithe boughs to see the clay
Which seemed to cover his for judgment-day.

Nay! not so long!—France kept her old affection,
As deeply as the sepulchre the corse,
Until dilated by such love's remorse
To a new angel of the resurrection,
She cried, "Behold, thou England! I would have
The dead whereof thou wottest, from that grave."

And England answered in the courtesy
Which, ancient foes turned lovers, may befit,—
"Take back thy dead! and when thou buriest it,
Throw in all former strifes 'twixt thee and me."
Amen, mine England! 'tis a courteous claim—
But ask a little room too . . . for thy shame!

Because it was not well, it was not well,
Nor tuneful with thy lofty-chanted part
Among the Oceanides,—that Heart
To bind and bare, and vex with vulture fell.
I would, my noble England! men might seek
All crimson stains upon thy breast—not cheek!

I would that hostile fleets had scarred thy bay
Instead of the lone ship which waited moored
Until thy princely purpose was assured,
Then left a shadow—not to pass away—
Not for to-night's moon, nor to-morrow's sun!
Green watching hills, ye witnessed what was done!

And since it was done,—in sepulchral dust,
We fain would pay back something of our debt
To France, if not to honour, and forget
How through much fear we falsified the trust
Of a fallen foe and exile!—We return
Orestes to Electra . . . in his urn!