Dreyfus

France has no dungeon in her island tombSo deep that she may hide injustice there;The cry of innocence, despite her care,—Despite her roll of drums, her cannon's boom,—Is heard wherever human hearts have roomFor sympathy: a sob upon the air,Echoed and reëchoed everywhere,It swells and swells, a prophecy of doom.

Thou latest victim of an ancient hate!In agony so awfully alone,The world forgets thee not, nor can forget:Such martyrdom she feels to be her own,And sees involved in thine her larger fate;She questions, and thy foes shall answer yet.