 | Poems |  |
129
THE ARMISTICE.
FEBRUARY, 1871.
Hushed is the sound of the rifle's crash, and the cannon's murderous booming;
Sheathed for a time is the bloody sword, and the flashing bayonet;
Dark on the homes of the ravaged land the war-cloud yet is glooming;
Over the hills of sore defeat, the sun of France is set.
Now on bloody battle-fields of glory and disgrace,
Gaze the nations long and hard into each other's face:
One, with triumph in her eye, sings victory's swelling note,
While her iron hand is tight upon the other's throat.
Under the weight of fell Despair, the conquered one is kneeling,
Gazing upon the conqueror, with anger and surprise;
Yet with a look, half-hidden still, of humble, mute appealing,
Blent with the stern and haughty glance that kindles in her eyes.
Sheathed for a time is the bloody sword, and the flashing bayonet;
Dark on the homes of the ravaged land the war-cloud yet is glooming;
Over the hills of sore defeat, the sun of France is set.
Now on bloody battle-fields of glory and disgrace,
Gaze the nations long and hard into each other's face:
One, with triumph in her eye, sings victory's swelling note,
While her iron hand is tight upon the other's throat.
Under the weight of fell Despair, the conquered one is kneeling,
Gazing upon the conqueror, with anger and surprise;
Yet with a look, half-hidden still, of humble, mute appealing,
Blent with the stern and haughty glance that kindles in her eyes.
130
Close by her cheerless, fireless hearth, a widowed dame is cowing;
Dead is her son, and dead his sire, and broken is her heart.
Gloomily o'er her desolate home the cloud of war is bowing,
While the lightning-bolts of grief from its recesses dart.
“O my God!” she moans and prays: “let now the carnage cease!
Kings may quarrel, princes fight, but give the peasant peace!
Though our legions fall in dust, or march with triumph's tread,
Will it shut the bleeding wound, or raise the cold and dead?
Emperor, Regent, President—what boots it which reign o'er us,
While by our sweat, and tears, and blood, we fill their glory's cup?
Say! can they raise our fallen sons, to stand again before us?
Bid our daughters, crushed and shamed, in triumph to look up?”
Dead is her son, and dead his sire, and broken is her heart.
Gloomily o'er her desolate home the cloud of war is bowing,
While the lightning-bolts of grief from its recesses dart.
“O my God!” she moans and prays: “let now the carnage cease!
Kings may quarrel, princes fight, but give the peasant peace!
Though our legions fall in dust, or march with triumph's tread,
Will it shut the bleeding wound, or raise the cold and dead?
Emperor, Regent, President—what boots it which reign o'er us,
While by our sweat, and tears, and blood, we fill their glory's cup?
Say! can they raise our fallen sons, to stand again before us?
Bid our daughters, crushed and shamed, in triumph to look up?”
Under the temple of his rest, Napoleon's form is lying;
Over its proud and lofty dome the great shot hissed and fell.
'Neath the shade of the lofty roof, his countrymen are dying,
Starved by the band that compassed them, and struck by Prussian shell.
Now the nation crushed and riven at Saalfield's hapless fray,
Flings the bolts of bitter hate she forged since that sad day;
Now she wears the rose that grew on sorrow's quickening thorn;
Now she pays with usury good the Frenchman's ancient scorn.
For never an old-time Gaul has stepped into this strife's arena,
And never chief has France to mass her legions for a blow;
And never the clash of steel can rouse the conquering chief of Jena,
And never the Prussians' tread can wake their ancient, dreaded foe.
Over its proud and lofty dome the great shot hissed and fell.
'Neath the shade of the lofty roof, his countrymen are dying,
131
Now the nation crushed and riven at Saalfield's hapless fray,
Flings the bolts of bitter hate she forged since that sad day;
Now she wears the rose that grew on sorrow's quickening thorn;
Now she pays with usury good the Frenchman's ancient scorn.
For never an old-time Gaul has stepped into this strife's arena,
And never chief has France to mass her legions for a blow;
And never the clash of steel can rouse the conquering chief of Jena,
And never the Prussians' tread can wake their ancient, dreaded foe.
So, O France, from the German ground that once by thee was harrowed,
All the seeds of hate thou sowedst, to thorns of death have sprung.
So shall thy greedy boundaries by German hands be narrowed;
This is the fruit thou plantedst when the century was young.
So, O Prussia, mark thy way, and mind thy rival's doom;
Plant the seeds of gratitude, while victory is in bloom.
Nations crushed by sword and fire, revenge will some time gain;
Nations crushed by generous deeds, will ever thus remain.
So, if the years to come to thee, shall favor thine ambition,
Or should Defeat thy steps entrap, with shrewd disastrous hand,
Deeds of kindness planted now will meet a blest fruition,
Golden crownéd by the thanks and prayers of France, thy sister-land.
All the seeds of hate thou sowedst, to thorns of death have sprung.
So shall thy greedy boundaries by German hands be narrowed;
This is the fruit thou plantedst when the century was young.
So, O Prussia, mark thy way, and mind thy rival's doom;
Plant the seeds of gratitude, while victory is in bloom.
132
Nations crushed by generous deeds, will ever thus remain.
So, if the years to come to thee, shall favor thine ambition,
Or should Defeat thy steps entrap, with shrewd disastrous hand,
Deeds of kindness planted now will meet a blest fruition,
Golden crownéd by the thanks and prayers of France, thy sister-land.
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