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And that in France, the chivalrous, whose lore
  Made her the flower of knightly age gone by.
Now she lies hideous with a leprous sore
  No skill can cure—no pardon purify.

And an indignant world, transfixed with hate
  Of such disease, cries, as in Herod's time,
Pointing its finger at her festering state,
  "Room for the leper, and her leprous crime!"
And France, writhing from years of torment, cries
  Out in her anguish, "Let this Jew endure,
Damned and disgraced, vicarious sacrifice.
  The honour of my army is secure."

And, vampire-like, that army sucks the blood
  From out a martyr's veins, and strips his crown
Of honour from him, and his herohood
  Flings in the dust, and cuts his manhood down.
Hide from your God, O! ye that did this act!
  With lesser crimes the halls of Hell are paved.
Your army's honour may be still intact,
  Unstained, unsoiled, unspotted,—but unsaved.