The Drama of Kings | ||
3. Part III. THE TEUTON AGAINST PARIS.
Chorus of Sisters of the Red Cross.
CHORUS.
City of Sorrows, hearken to our cry;
O Mother tender,
O mother marvellously fair,
And fairest now in thy despair,
Look up! O be of comfort! Do not die!
Let the black hour blow by.
Gnawing a stone sits Famine at thy feet
Shivering and sighing;
Blacker than Famine, on thy breast,
Like a sick child that will not rest,
Frost weaves his winding-sheet.
Snow: it is frozen round thee as hard as lead;
The wind blows chilly;
Thou liest white in the dim night,
And in thine eyes there is no light,
And the Snow falleth, freezing on thy head
And covering up thy dead.
Press stony on thy heart; and thy heart bleeds;
Thine eyes despairing
Watch while the fierce Fire clings and crawls
Through falling roofs and crumbling walls.
Ah, woe! to see thee thus, the wild soul pleads,
The wild tongue intercedes.
We with a voice that troubles heaven and air
Will intercede for thee;
We will cry for thee in thy pain
Louder than storm and wind and rain;
What shape among the nations may compare
With thee, most lost, most fair?
Yea, thou hast passed through days of shamefullest woe—
And lo! they are ended—
Famine for famine, flame for flame,
Sorrow for sorrow, shame for shame,
Verily thou hast found them all;—and lo!
Night and the falling snow.
Hold thee, but turn thy patient eyes and see
The dim sweet morrow.
Better be stricken and overcast,
Martyr'd once more, as when to all things free
Thy lips cried “Liberty!”
Let the Fire burn! under the morning sky
Thou shalt look brighter.
Comfort thy sad soul through the night;
Turn to the east and pray for light;
Look up! O be of comfort! do not die!
Let the black hour blow by!
Chorus. The Royal Chancellor.
Chorus.
See where slow-footed, silent, and alone,
Cometh the grim gray soul of all this woe.
He climbs the knoll, and in the frosty moonlight
Standing gigantic, looketh silently
On the imperial City that afar
Looms as a phantasm through the vitreous air.
Paris! they did not lie who call'd thee fair;
And never wert thou fairer than this night
When God and Man conspire to write thy doom.
Chorus.
He speaks; and brightly on his glittering helm,
And on his frosty face and grizzled beard,
Glimmers the silver radiance of the moon.
Chancellor.
What women are ye?—who, clad like Hecaté,
Gather and turn your faces white one way,
Hither, like lilies wind-blown on a mere?
Chorus.
Poor sisters, bearing in our hands the Cross.
Chancellor.
What do ye abroad, at midnight, and alone?
Searching the heaps of slain lest any live.
Chancellor.
From what land are ye? Children of what mother?
Chorus.
Daughters of France, for whom we weep this night.
Chancellor.
Weep not for France. She reapeth her own seed.
Chorus.
Yea—but we sicken, lest she wholly die.
Chancellor.
Die? Let France die; for she hath lived too long,
The white-skin'd Leper of a wholesome world,
Clad in fine linen and with scented locks,
Leaving in her foul trail disease and doom,
Heart-eating ennui, and accurst desire
Bred of the marrow of corrupted bones.
Die? If a dagger-stroke could slay this France,
This unclean harlot, this infecting fraud,
Envenoming all lips that she doth kiss,
Cursing the lips that will not kiss at all,
I would strike home this night unto her heart,
And bury her to the deep and solemn sound
Of thanksgiving from a world purified.
But since I cannot slay her as I would,
Since she is many-lived and subtle and quick,
We will try Fire, and let it on her heel
Fasten like a red wolf and drag her down;
And in her snake's-eyes we will flash the sword
So that she screams remembering her sins;
And she shall see those Temples desolate
Wherein she sat with sick face altar-wards
And while she moans, out of the earth shall steal
Famine, and like a toad slip down her throat,
And in the belly of her coil and spit;
Frost too shall fasten on her quivering limbs,
And slowly, with blunt teeth, bite to the bone;
And then, perchance in the eleventh hour,
This France may gaze upon the world she curst,
And pray to God to heal her long disease,
Or send swift lightning down, and let her die!
Chorus.
Why art thou bitter? Is thy wrong so great?
Chancellor.
Mountainous, women; and revenge is sweet.
Name not revenge, but give thy wrong a name.
Chancellor.
I am a Teuton—see, my wrong is said.
Chorus.
Teuton or Frank, utter thy wrong from France.
Chancellor.
Then listen. Ye are women, and ye weep
For France who bare ye; I am a man, and born
Out of a fruitful and a perfect womb;
And not with feverish fancies, peevish care,
Nor yet with easy tears, yet passing well,
In mine own fashion, more with deeds than words,
I cling to her that bare me—Germany,—
Yea, she who yonder sits beside the Rhine,
Looks hither. Shall I tell an old wife's tale
Of how your France in her most drunken hour
Sprang to our vineyards, to our tranquil fields,
And struck, with all a furious harlot's hate
For what is purer than her own foul self,
At the great mother,—slew her shrieking children,—
Drove her from lair to lair across the dark
Hungry and naked, while the moaning babe
Drank from her wounded breast not milk but blood?
Shall I remind ye of that fiery scourge
France held with maniac-strength to lash the world,
Till the world rose, and tore it from her grasp,
And flung it far into the silent sea?
Or of that other meaner, gaudier whip,
A baby's rattle, a mere infant's toy,
Snatch'd from her trembling hand and flung despised
Into a corner only yesterday?
Women to wonder at, and bards to rhyme.
How! shall a harlot threaten all earth's kings?
What! shall a painted reveller of the stews,
Full-teeth'd with all the spitefulness of lust,
Crawl with a dagger up and down the earth
So that no mortal man can sleep at night?
Shall France, this Messalina of the nations,
This thing of many lovers, luring all,
Constant to none, adulterous with all,
Constant to nothing but inconstancy,
Shall this crown'd strumpet break the peaceful air
Now with red revel, now with the sharp sword,
Just as the whim comes, as the wine inspires,
As peevish passion and unnatural lust,
Impotent to allay their own foul fire,
Urge on and prompt the miserable will?
No, but an arm, a man's hand clad in mail,
Hath struck one blow, and there the scarecrow lies,
May sleep more freely now this thing is done.
Chorus.
If it be so, then leave her now to God—
Nor trample on a thing so wholly fallen.
Chancellor.
Nay, God's avenging Furies first shall work.
Chorus.
To what avail, since she is impotent?
Chancellor.
That she may taste the cup of ills she gave.
Chorus.
She hath drunk deep; O let her drink no more!
'Tis but begun. She must be bound with cords,
And gagged, and stript of all her gauds and gold.
Chorus.
Ah, woe! what shall she do thus bound and stript?
Chancellor.
Her sons shall till the ground and fill her mouth,
Her daughters weave her homely homespun raiment,
And when she hath knelt and sworn a mighty oath,
And writ this oath upon a charter down,
Why we may loose her bonds and set her free.
Chorus.
To wander out o'er the waste world in shame.
Peace, women; for these things shall come to pass,
Since it is written he who cares to sow
Shall reap the harvest, be it grain or weed.
Let France walk forth in sackcloth, let her wrists
Wear gyves; set, too, a fool's-cap on her head,
With “Glory” for a label writ in blood;
Then let a trumpeter before her go,
And let him sound, and between whiles aloud
Read the long record of enormities,
And ending each, strike sharply with the scourge
On the bare shoulders of the penitent;
And let the little children of the earth
Follow and point, while good wives raise their hands,
And honest burghers nodding pipe in mouth,
Mutter aloud, “Thank God! the world is free!”
Chorus.
Yonder moon is sailing eastward slow;
All around thee silent hills are dreaming,
Coldly sheeted in the wintry snow;
From thy husht heart stealing to the ocean,
Underneath the blue ice dimly gleaming,
Crawls the river with a serpent motion,
Wafting the chill whisper of thy woe.
Where thou liest dark and desolate!
Mother! shapes not human gather near thee,
Crouch'd beneath the night-shade of thy fate;
Spirits watch thee where thou liest stricken.
Pray, and while thou prayest they shall hear thee—
Gathering like storm-clouds at thy gate.
On thy fair white throat are marks of flame—
Low thou liest, drooping proud eyelashes,
Clenching hands and heaving breasts in shame;
Naked to the frost-wind art thou lying;
Snow-white is thy face, and yet it flashes,
Answering the last look of the dying,
While they seek thine eyes and name thy name.
Trumpeted upon the heights of old;
'Tis a name the earth with acclamations
Murmured, dancing round thy Throne of Gold;
'Tis the name that freed the generations:
Still the same, grown sadder and supremer,
Blesseder, O Martyr, twenty-fold.
Lifted up and waved in the world's eyes;
By the strange and ne'er forgotten story
Of the flight of Kings and death of Lies;
By the light that never since hath dwindled,
Man again shall see thee in thy glory;
By the fire upon the mountains kindled—
Beautiful, a Queen, thou shalt arise.
Yet they shall be blessed days indeed,
For the very blood thereof shall raise for thee
Men and women of diviner seed.
Even the Avenging Angel prays for thee!
Smiter of the nations, thou art smitten—
Freer of the nations, be thou freed!
Sleep a space beneath the stars this night;
With thy many watch-fires dimly burning,
Scatter'd red upon the wold snow-white,
Slumber in the dark, O mother City!
O'er thee, dim and strange to our discerning,
Miraculously fair, a Shape of Pity
Waiteth with a drawn Sword and a Light.
Waving bright white pinions like a dove;
Blessed is the Sword that he is bringing,
Such as holy spirits wield above;
Such another brand arose in beauty
O'er the Gate of Paradise up-springing.
Mother, hearken—it is the Sword of Duty;
Mother, hearken—it is the Light of Love!
Take the shining weapon of the free,
And the sweet Lamp grasping in the other,
Lift it high that all the world may see.
Bought with bloody tears and bitterest sorrow,
They are thine for ever, martyr-mother!
Thou shalt wear them on some golden morrow,
Dawn shall come, the storm of God shall flee.
Thou shalt win a raiment star-enwrought—
Under the new dawn and the blue heaven
Thou shalt wear this raiment blood hath bought;
Further, since thy heart hath cast off weakness,
For thy forehead shall a crown be given.
Mother, hearken—it is the Robe of Meekness;
Mother, hearken—it is the Crown of Thought!
When thy days of bitterness are fled;
With the Robe of Meekness shining o'er thee,
With the Lamp of Love to light thy tread,
Clad in lily raiment, O my mother,
Holding in one hand the light before thee,
Lifting up the bright Sword in the other,
Smiling, with the Crown upon thy head!
Dream of it, tho' crusht and undertrod,—
Freer of the souls of generations,
Raise that face of sorrow from the sod;
Casting off thy sins and thy disgraces,
Issuing from utter tribulations,
Struggling from the serpent's fierce embraces,
Pass along the narrow path of God.
The ROYAL CHANCELLOR.
Of social sores, this framework of disease,
Play the hard surgeon,
To the reader who may question the moral truth of my representation of Count Bismarck, I recommend a careful study of his speeches now collected and published at Berlin. Once more, however, let me warn the student that the great statesman is approached from the divine side, during the highest mood of which, from the dramatic point of view, he is capable. That mood, unhappily, is a low enough one.
Impassive, smiling with a shrunken heart,
And hated by the very thing I cure?
Why now, this night a pen-stroke like a knife
Falls, and at dawn the people corporate
May feel one limb the less; should the pen fail,
A sword-stroke settles all, and the rich life
That oozed into the limb and wasted there,
Withdrawn into the body of the state
Deepens the blood to livelier crimson, strikes
Fresh thrills of fire through the electric brain.
Europe forsooth is piteously sick,
Polluted every fibre with old sores
And new diseases, and I shall not fail
In my cold healing mission, though it yields
Its life up, agonizing 'neath my hand.
Alone in all the world beneath the stars,
Is something; but to feel the steadfast will
Deepen, the judgment clear itself, the gaze
Grow keener, all the purpose that was dim
Brighten distinct in the serene still light
Of conquest—that is more; more than all power,
More than lip-homage, more than crowns and thrones,
More than the world; for it is life indeed.
O how the dreams and hopes and plans cohere!
How the great phalanx broadens! Like a wave
It washes Europe, and before its sweep
The lying idols, based on quicksand, shift,
Totter, and fall: strewn with the wreck and dead,
It shrieks and gathers up a flashing crest
In act to drown the lingering life of France.
Wave of the Teuton, is it wonderful
The strength and wrath of God?
And (let me whisper it to mine own heart)
I tremble. I have played with fire; behold,
It hath devour'd God's enemy and mine;
And tamely at my bidding croucheth now
With luminous eyes half closed. This fire is Truth,
And by it I shall rise or fall. This fire
Is very God's—I know it; and thus far
God to my keeping hath committed it.
What next? and next? There at my feet lies France,
Bound, stricken, screaming,—yonder, good as dead,
Pluckt of his fangs, the imperial adder crawls,
Tame as a mouse. I have struck down these twain,
The Liar, and the creature of the Liar;
I have slain these twain with an avenging flame,
And while I stand victorious comes a voice
Whereat I pause and tremble. 'Tis so easy
To cast down Idols! The tide so pitilessly
Washes each name from the waste sands of time!
'Twas yestermorn the Man of Mysteries fell—
Whose turn comes next?
O sovereign Lord and King! thou great grey head,
Simple and child-like in the aureole
Thou deemest holy,—no, thou shalt not fall;
But rather, like Empedocles of old,
I who have led thee on, thy loving slave,
Would plunge into the crater, and with life
Appease the awful hunger of the earth.
From Italy to the blue Baltic rolls
A voice, a wind, a murmur in the air,
A tone full of the sense of winds and waters
And the faint whispers from ethereal fields,
A cry of anguish and of mystery
Echoed by the volcano in whose depths
And men who hear it answer back one word,
“Liberty!”—Cities echo through their streets;
The word is wafted on from vale to vale:
Heart-drowsy Albion answers with a cheer,
Feeble yet clear; the great wild West refrains;
Italy thunders, and Helvetia
Blows the wild horn high up among her hills;
France, wounded, dying, stretch'd beneath my feet,
Gnaws at her bonds and shrieks in mad accord
(For she indeed first gave the thing a name);
And even the wily Russian, with his yoke
Prest on innumerable groaning necks,
Sleek like the serpent, smooths, his frosty cheek
To listen, and half-smiling hisses back
The strange word “Liberty!” between his teeth,
And shivers with a bitterer sense of cold
O'er which he paceth hungry and alone.
CHORUS.
Of the hill of Time,
What light art thou,
Whither all men now
Turn eyes and climb?
Still gleaming afar,
While the wild days go,
Still shining a Star
In the region of snow:
We crave thee, we cry for thee,
We faint and we sigh for thee,—
Thou shinest above,—
Yea, we dare die for thee,
Light that we love.
Alas not yet,
May we reach the height
Where dim and bright
Thy lamp is set,—
In the waste below,
We darken and brighten,
We ebb and we flow:
Dim stretch the heights above
All days and nights above,—
Past the storms stream,—
Light of all lights above
Art thou a dream?
Sweet Light and strange!
Not as dreams are,
But a thronëd Star
That doth not change!
O'er the world thou hast gleamed
Since the first dim day:
Dreams have been dream'd
And have passed away;
All dreams have burn'd to thee,
All days have turn'd to thee,
O Liberty!
And as all have yearned to thee
We yearn and see!
Dimly discern'd,
What Light art thou,
Whither all turn now
As they ever turn'd?—
The great earth flowers to thee,
The earth's tongues name thee,
All things, all hours, to thee
Upturn, and claim thee;—
And the world's waves wail for thee,
And our cheeks flash pale for thee,
Yet art thou sure—
And though all hopes fail for thee,
Thou shalt endure!
The ROYAL CHANCELLOR.
Not force, not tumult, not the wind and rain
And tempest, not the spirit of mere storm,
Not earthquake, not the lightning, not swift Fire,
Not one of these, but mightier far than these,—
Out of whose silence issue all, the rock
Whereon the mountain and the crater stand,
The adamantine pillars of the earth,
Deep-based beneath the ever-varying air
And under the wild changes of the sea,
The inevitable, the unchangeable,
The secret law, the impulse, and the thought,
Whereby men live and grow.
As ever, dare with a man's eyes and soul
Hold by this thing whereof the foolish rave,
And cry, “In God's name, peace, ye winds and waves,
Ye froths and bubbles on the sea, ye voices
Haunting the fitful region of the air!
God is above ye all, and next to God
The Son and Holy Spirit, and beneath
These twain the great anointed Kings of Earth,
And underneath the Kings the Wise and Good,
And underneath the Wise the merely Strong,
The base, the miserable, and the weak.
What, then, is this that ye name “Liberty”?
There is evermore a higher. Not like waves
Beating about in a waste sea are men,
But great, small, fair, foul, strong, weak, miserable;—
And Liberty is law creating law
Wherein each corporal member of the world
Filleth his function in the place ordain'd.
Child at the knee, look in thy mother's face!
Boy-student, reverence the philosopher!
Clown, till the earth, and let the market thrive!
Citizen, doff to beauty and to grace,
To antique fame and holy ancestry!
Nobles, blood purified from running long,
Circle of sanctity, surround the King!
King, stand on the bare height and raise thine eyes,
For there sits God above thee, reverencing
The perfect mirror of the soul of things
And knows Himself divine!
The eternal Order like a goodly tree,
The root of which is deep within the soil.
And lo! the wind and rain are beating on it,
And lightning rends its branches; yet anon
It hangs in gorgeous blossom still-renewed,
And shoots its topmost twig up through the cloud
To touch the changeless stars. Herr Democrat
Comes with his blunt rough axe, and at its root
Strikes shrieking; the earth's parrots echo him;
Blow follows blow; the air reverberates;
But the Tree stands. Come winds and waves and lightnings,
Come axe-wielders, come ye iconoclasts,
And spend your strength in vain. What! ye would stretch
Down to the dusty level of your lives,
Would strew the soil with the fair blooms thereof,
Would tear away the succulent leaves and make
A festal chaplet for Silenus' hair,
A drunken garland for the Feast of Fools.
See, yonder blow the branches where the great
Tremble like ripen'd fruit; yonder the holy
Gleam in the silvern foliage, sweet and fair;
There, just beneath the cloud, most dim in height,
The flowers of monarchy open their buds
And turn their starry faces upward still.
Strike at the root, my little democrat,
Down with them! Down with the whole goodly tree!
Down even with that fair shoot beyond the cloud,
Down with the unseen bloom of perfect height,
Down with the light of God!
This Order to a Man, body and brain,
Heart, lungs, eyes, feet to stand on, hands to strike.
The King is to the realm what conscience is
To manhood; the true statesman is the brain;
And under these subsist, greater and less,
The members of the body politic.
Behold now, this alone is majesty:
The incarnate Conscience of the people, fixed
Beyond the body, higher than the brain,
Yet perfect fruit of both,—the higher sense
That flashes back through all the popular frame
The intuitions and the lights divine
Whereby the world is guided under God.
Nor are all Kings ancestral, though these same
Are highest. Yonder in the stormy West
The plain man Lincoln rose to majesty,
Of the strong generation, moved to his end,
Struck, triumph'd in the name of conscience, fell,
And like a sun that sets in bloody light,
In dying darken'd half earth's continents.
Gambetta? Urge thy legions, for in truth
There is no face in France this day with light
So troublous to the eyes of victory.
O brave one, wert thou France's will and soul,
Why we might tremble. Let there rise a land,
As strong in conscience and as stern in soul
As we have been to follow a living truth,
And it might slay us even as we have slain
Imperial France and the Republic. Now
Supreme we stand, our symbol being the sword,
I strike, all strike, yea every Teuton strikes.
Reason and conscience knitted in accord
Are deathless, and must overcome the world.
The higher law will shape them. I believe
There is evermore a higher.
CHORUS.
Are throng'd with starry eyes;
Vast dome that over land and seas,
Dost luminously rise,
With mystic characters enwrought
More strange than all poetic thought!
O stars, if see ye can!
Mark, while your speechless mystery
Flows to a voice in man:
He stands erect this solemn hour
In reverent insolence of power.
Dazzles all guess or dream;
Sequence unseen, whose mystic flow
Fulfils the immortal scheme;
Thou law whereby all stand or stir,—
Here breathes your last interpreter!
Another foolish King;
Because a half-born nation's brain
With dizzy joy doth ring;
Because at the false shepherd's cry
The silly sheep still throng to die;
Out of her cobweb'd cave
Croaks in a voice of senile glee
While empty patriots rave;
Because humanity is still
The gull of any daring will;
A little longer yet;
Because in each crown'd puppet's hands
A laurel-sprig is set,
The draff of miserable souls;
The purple and the throne,
And gray fools gladden at the sight,
And maiden choirs intone;
Because once more the puppet Kings
Dance, while Death's lean hand pulls the strings;
And oft again may be,
Doth this man swear by sun and star,
And oh our God by Thee,
Framing to cheat his own shrewd eyes
His fair cosmogony of lies.
Behold he deemeth Thee
A little nobler than the King,
And greater in degree,
Set just above the monarch's mind,
Greater in sphere but like in kind!
Transcending life and death,
He deems these bursting bubbles Thine,
Blown earthward by Thy breath,—
He marks Thee sitting well content,
Like some old King at tournament.
The gleaming columns range;
The sign is given by Thee, O God,
From Thy pavilion strange:
The trumpets blow, the champions meet,
One screams—Thou smilest on Thy seat.
Of Thy great chivalry!
See tinsel crown and glittering crest,
Cold heart and empty eye!
The living shout, the dying groan,
All reddens underneath Thy throne!
Vouchsafe them all they seek!
Deepen their purple in man's blood!
Trumpet them with man's shriek!
With heart's blood bright and crimson fire!
Protect them with Thy hand,
Beyond the bright hill of the fight
Let them in safety stand;
For 'twere not well a random blow
Should strike thy next-of-kin below.
Spare us, for we blaspheme,
See,—for upon our knees we fall,
And hush our mocking scream—
Let us pray low; let us pray low;
Thy will be done; thy Kingdom grow!
Are throng'd with starry eyes,
Still dome that over earth and seas
Doth luminously rise;
Fair Order mystically wrought,
More strange than all poetic thought.
To his own soul he lies,
Lo! trembling at his own dark plan
He contemplates the prize:
He has won all, and lo! he stands
Clutching the glory in his hands!
Sooner or late is brought
The silent solemnizing ray
Illuminating thought;
It shines, they stand on some lone spot,
Its light is strange, they know it not.
The conscience of the soul,
Unknown, where never eye may mark,
While days and seasons roll;
But late or soon the walls of clay
Are loosening to admit the day.
Child of the unknown sky—
Flashes its first reply:
Light brighteneth; and all things fair
Flow to the glass and tremble there.
We shine by Thee alone;
Tho' thou hast made us mirrors bright,
The gleam is not our own;
Until thy ray shines sweet and plain
All shall be dark as this man's brain.
Creep gently, Lord, this hour;
Tho' now 'tis darker than the grave
There lies the shining power;
Come! let the soul flash back to Thee
The million lights of Deity!
CHORUS. A DESERTER.
Deserter.
O I am spent! My heart fails, and my limbs
Are palsied. Would to God that I were dead!
Stand! What art thou, who like a guilty thing
Creepest along the shadow, stooping low?
Deserter.
A man. Now stand aside and let me pass.
Chorus.
Not yet. Whence fleest thou? Whither dost thou go?
Deserter.
From Famine and Fire. From Horror. From Frost and Death.
Chorus.
O coward! traitor to unhappy France!
Stand forward in the moon, that it may light
The blush of shame upon thy guilty cheek!
Lo, we are women, yet we shiver cold
To look upon so infamous a thing.
Nay, look your fill—I care not—stand and see.
Chorus.
O horror! horror! who hath done this deed?
Deserter.
What say ye? am I fair to look upon?
Chorus.
The dead are fairer. O unhappy one!
Deserter.
Why do ye shudder? Am I then so foul?
Chorus.
There is no living flesh upon thy bones.
Deserter.
Famine hath fed upon my limbs too long.
And thou art rent as by the teeth of hounds.
Deserter.
Fire tore me, and what blood I have I bleed.
Chorus.
Thine eyes stare like the blank eyes of a corpse.
Deserter.
They have look'd so close on horror and so long
I cannot shut them from it till I die.
Chorus.
Thou crawlest like a man whose sick limbs fail.
Deserter.
Ha, Frost is there, and numbs me like a snake.
God help thee, miserable one; and yet,
Better if thou hadst perish'd in thy place
Than live inglorious tainted with thy shame.
Deserter.
Shame? I am long past shame. I know her not.
Chorus.
Is there no sense of honour in thy soul?
Deserter.
Honour? Why see, she hath me fast enough:
These are her other names, Fire, Famine, and Frost,—
Soon I shall hear her last and sweetest,—Death.
Chorus.
Hast thou no care for France, thy martyr'd land?
What hath she given me? Curses and blows.
Chorus.
O miserable one, remember God!
Deserter.
God? Who hath look'd on God? Where doth He dwell?
O fools, with what vain words and empty names
Ye sicken me. Honour, France, God! All these—
Hear me—I curse. Why, look you, there's the sky,
Here the white earth, there, with its bleeding heart,
The butcher'd City; here half dead stand I,
A murder'd man, grown grey before my time,
Forty years old—a husband, and a father—
An outcast flying out of Hell. Who talks
When standing at my wretched mother's knee,
Because her face was white, and she wore black,
That day the bells rang out for victory.
Then, look you, after that my mother sat
Weeping and weary in an empty house,
And they who look'd upon her shrunken cheeks
Fed her with “honour.” 'Twas too gentle fare,—
She died. Nay, hearken! Left to seek for bread,
I like a wild thing haunted human doors
Searching the ash for food. I ate and lived.
I grew. Then, wretched as I was, I felt
Strange stirs of manhood in my flesh and bones,
Dim yearnings, fierce desires, and one pale face
Could still them as the white moon charms the sea.
Oh, but I was a low and unclean thing,
To God, and blest Him for His charity.
Mark that:—I blest Him, I. Even as I stood,
Bright in new manhood, the drums beat,—a hand
Fell on my shoulder, and, “in France's name,”
A voice cried, “Follow.” To my heart they held
Cold steel:—I followed; following saw her face
Fade to a bitter cry—hurl'd on with blows,
Curs'd, jeer'd at, scorn'd, went forth as in a dream,
And, driven into the bloody flash of war,
Struck like a blinded beast I knew not whom
Blows for I knew not what. The fierce years came
Like ulcers on my heart, and heal'd, and went.
Then I crept back, a broken sickly man,
To seek her, and I found her—dead! She had died,
And “France” had given her stones. She had pray'd to “God;”
He had given her a grave. The day she died,
The bells rang for another victory.
Chorus.
O do not weep! Yet we are weeping too.
Deserter.
Now mark, I was too poor a worm to grieve
Too long and deeply. The years passed. My heart
Heal'd, and as wounds heal, harden'd. Once again
I join'd the wolves that up and down the earth
Rush tearing at men's lives and women's hearts.
That passed, and I was free. One morn I saw
Another woman, and I hunger'd to her,
And children—she was fruitful—all your worms
Are fruitful, mark—that is God's blessing too!
Well, but we throve, and farm'd a bit of land
Out yonder by the City. I learn'd to love
The mother of my little ones. Time sped;
And then I heard a cry across the fields,
The old cry, “Honour,” the old cry, “To Arms!”
And like a wolf caught in his lair I shrunk
And shudder'd. It grew louder, that curst cry!
Day follow'd day, no bells rung victory,
But there were funeral faces everywhere;
And then I heard the far feet of the foe
Trampling the fields of France and coming nearer
To that poor field I sow'd. I would have fled,
But that they thrust a weapon in mine hands
And bade me stand and strike “for France.” I laugh'd!
Into the City. Shall I gorge your souls
With horror? Shall I croak into your ears
What I have suffer'd there, what I have seen?
I was a worm, ever a worm, and starved
While the plump coward cram'd. Look at me, women!
Fire, Famine, and Frost have got me; yet I crawl,
And shall crawl on; for hark you, yesternight,
Standing within the City, sick at heart,
I gazed up eastward, thinking of my home
And of the woman and children desolate,
And lo! out of the darkness where I knew
Our hamlet lay there shot up flames and cast
A bloody light along the arc of heaven;
And all my heart was sicken'd unaware
With hunger such as any wild thing feels
To crawl again in secret to the place
Whence the fierce hunter drove it, and to see
And yonder flame still flareth, and I crawl,
And I shall crawl unto it though I die;
And I shall only smile if they be dead,
If I may merely see them once again,—
For come what may, my cup of life is full,
And I am broken from all use and will.
Chorus.
Pass on, unhappy one; God help thee now!
Deserter.
If ye have any pity, give me bread.
Chorus.
Lean on us! O thou lost one, come this way.
Deserter.
And whither do ye lead me, O ye women?
Look yonder where the light gleams from a door,
There shalt thou eat thy fill and warm thy limbs.
Deserter.
'Tis well; there is some pity in your hearts.
Chorus,
We pity thee and bless thee, praying God.
Deserter.
Nay, let “God” be—In truth I know Him not.
Chorus.
Can ye see and keep your places?
Flowers that on the old earth blossom,
Can ye hang on such a bosom?
Canst thou wander on for ever
Through a world so sad, O River?
Can ye bear what Man hath done?
Pause a little space and ponder!
Dewy eyes to heaven and yearneth,
Day by day the mighty mother
Sees her children smite each other:
She moans, she pleads, they do not hear her—
She prays—the skies seem gathering near her—
Yearning down diviner, bluer,
Baring every star unto her,—
Each strange light with swinging censer
Sweeter seeming and intenser,—
Yet she ceaseth not her cry,
Seeing how her children die.
Clinging to her, dead and dying—
Dead eyes frozen in imploring
Yonder heaven they died adoring,
Ever growing darker, dimmer;
And her eyes, too, thither turning,
Asking, praying, weeping, yearning,
Search the blue abysses, whither
He who made her, brought her hither,
Gave her children, bade them grow,
Vanish'd from her long ago.
Never word of hers may free them—
Never word of love may win them,
For there burneth fierce within them
Fire of thine; soul-sick and sinning,
As they were in the beginning,
Here they wander. Father, see!
Generations born of thee!
First she saw the double blossom,
Double sweetness, man and woman,
One in twain divine and human,
Leaping, laughing, crying, clinging,
To the sound of her sweet singing—
Eyes as blue as April weather,
Golden hair with golden shadows,
In the face the light of meadows,
In the eyes the dim soul peeping
Like the sky in water sleeping.
“Guard them well!” the Father said,
Set them in her arms,—and fled.
Vanish'd He from her discerning;—
Then she drooped her fair face, seeing
On her breast each gentle being;
And unto her heart she prest them,
Raised her look to heaven and blest them;
And the fountains leapt around her,
Leaves and flowers shot up and crown'd her,
Flowers bloom'd and streams ran gleaming,
Till with bliss she sank to dreaming;—
And the darkness for a cover
Gently drew its veil above her,
And the new-born smiled reposing,
And a million eyes unclosing
That new fruit of mystery.
Come, Thou light the mother misses;
Come, while hungry generations
Pass away, she sits in patience.
Of the children Thou didst leave her,
Millions have been born to grieve her.
See! they gather, living, dying,
Coming, going, multiplying;
And the mother for the Father,
Though like waves they rise and gather,
Though they blossom thick as grasses,
Misses every one that passes,
Flashes on them peace and light
Of a love grown infinite.
Something in him of Thy nature?
Born of Thee and of no other,
Born to Thee by a sweet mother,
Man strikes man, and brother brother.
Bleed and anguish bloody-passion'd,
Beast-like roar the generations,
Tiger-nations spring on nations;
Though the stars yearn downward nightly,
Though the days come ever brightly,
Though to gentle holy couches
Death in angel's guise approaches,
Though they name Thee, though they woo Thee,
Though they dream and yearn unto Thee,
Ill they guess the guise thou bearest,
Ill they picture Thee, Thou Fairest;—
Come again, O Father wise,
Awe them with those loving eyes!
Can ye see and keep your places?
Flowers that on the earth will blossom,
Can ye deck so sad a bosom?
Canst thou singing flow for ever
Through a world so dark, O River?
Father, canst Thou calmly scan
All that Man hath made of Man?
Chancellor.
Yield up again those stolen provinces!
Take council! be the prince of peacemakers!
For, let me say it in thy private ear,
As one who knows thee nobler than thy cause,
There is no other hope for France than this
We proffer. We have bought this thing with blood—
Be wise and yield it—lest with bitterer blood
We buy the dearest flesh and blood of Gaul,
And welding it as clay unto our will
Pour into it a new and Teuton soul.
Deputy.
That threat is empty, for the soul is God's;
These souls are French, they have thriven on French air;
They would return to Him from whom they came.
Chancellor.
Why, let them go!—The way to Him is short,
Nor very tedious—though it seems a way
Ye French love little, loving so much more
The windy breath with which ye flout your foe.—
Why, friend, we are no word-mongers, we twain:
Yet here, like market-women cheapening fish,
We wrangle at each other to no end.
I tell thee (shall I swear by anything?
I know thy nation loveth a round oath!)
I tell thee we are fixed as adamant,
Inexorable as the sea, and strong
To exact our wish as is the thunderbolt
That for a moment in the rain-cloud burns
Before it strikes the affrighted herdsman down.
How should the thrown man with his broken back
Clutch to his heart the prize of victory?
There is a victory in being vanquish'd
Ye little understand. Did ever schoolboy
Howl so when whipt? The world scream'd not as loud
When like a swarm of locusts, like a cloud
Of fiery pestilence, from the West to the East
Ye overran the bleeding continents,
And sowed in one Man's miserable name
The crop all living men are reaping now.
Deputy.
If I conceive thee, 'tis no sin of ours
That ye avenge on the fair head of France,
No crime of yesterday or yesteryear,
No deeds of live men walking in the sun,
In that forsaken island where he sleeps.
Chancellor.
They would not lie, man!—from that lonely grave
They have arisen again and yet again,—
Até-like, not to be laid by any charm
But blood of sacrifice sent up to God
From France the altar in whose name he slew.
Deputy.
Yet Cæsar's triumphs were avenged on Cæsar;
Remember Katzbach! Leipsic! Waterloo!
Chancellor.
O we remember! The Colossus fell,
And from the throne of every living King
The hordes he had led glared hate across the Rhine,
Till from the charnel-house of that great name
Uprose in his due time the wordy “Man
Of Silence;” round his feet the brute hosts leapt;
And smiling a smooth smile he glanced the way
They hunger'd. We were scattered, and we crouch'd
Under the Austrian eagle. Then, one day,
A plain man, a deep fellow with a will,
Rose saying, “Craft for craft! The bird of prey
Hovers too much above the German Rhine—
'Ware hawk! till he is trapt there is no sleep
For any of us poor creatures who love peace!”
When lo! the Vulture cried, “I am a Dove!”
And croak'd the hoarse cry of Democracy;
And as the soul of Italy arose,
The Vulture struck the Austrian Eagle down,
While all earth's kingdoms shook; then, stretching claws,
To warn the victor back. Now, that same man
I spake of, looking very humbly on,
Thought, “Craft for craft! The Frenchman wins by craft—
Not boldly, as the old French Eagle won.
What Marshall Vorwärts to Napoleon was,
Let me become to this the Man of Lies;
With his own weapons let me vanquish him;
First in the secret chamber, then with steel
Out in the light of the world.” So said, so done.
Close to the dotard Austrian for a time
We crouch'd; but we were gathering strength and ire;
And one by one with the new Teuton soul
We fill'd the scattered people of the Rhine.
Then came the time to cast the Austrian off.
'Twas done, we struck; your foul bird scream'd in vain;
And lo! with that one blow we felt our strength
Flow from the soul and grow invincible.
Hovering afar and ever gathering
And darkening the mighty River's bank;
And year by year we waited for the storm
We knew must break upon our heads at last.
It came—no bigger than the prophet's hand—
Then the tornado blowing from the West,—
So that the world cried, “God help Germany!”
And lo! God sent a wind out of the East;
And all the storm and wrack and thunder-rheum
Gathered in groaning tumult o'er the Rhine.
One from the East, the other from the West,
Tornado met tornado. One huge crash—
'Twas o'er! The West recoil'd in blood and fire,
Leaving the poor sing'd Vulture on the ground,
Struck by the lightning, screaming broken-wing'd,
Flapping to rise in vain. On goes the storm,
Driven less by sheer volition than the wind
God sent to drive it West; and still it sweeps—
Still the earth groans and darkens under it,
Thou criest “Pause!” How, like a summer cloud
Recoil, and leave ye fresher for our rain!
True, we have slain the evil-omen'd Bird,
And in so far have blest not punish'd France,
Who followed his stale cry;—but mark me, friend,
The sworn foe of the Teuton is the Celt,
Not the mere instrument your evil hands
Could find whene'er they itch'd for butchery;—
For birds of prey abound,—and it is easy
To fashion leaders for such hosts as yours.
But this time we will place ye in a pen
High as the Vosges, deeper than the Rhine,
So that though all the birds of earth should call,
Though all the wild free beasts should roar their best,
France, pent within the prison of her own fields,
Shall like a tame thing only roar again.
Deputy.
Yet think of mercy.
We are merciful.
Deputy.
Take pity.
Chancellor.
We are very pitiful.
Our women wail and weep in every house,
Our babes are fatherless, our maiden flowers
Wither unpluckt on every village way.
Who says we are not pitiful?
Deputy.
The head
That wrong'd ye is a serpent's head, and bruised
Is writhing underneath your armëd heel.
The blood of both the Teuton and the Celt
Be on that head,—but we are innocent.
Uplift thy knife from the poor lambs of France;
To some sad fold of peace!
Chancellor.
How call ye them?
Lambs? Lambs man-tooth'd, and most omnivorous!
Lambs? We shall draw the teeth of these same lambs,
Lest in a little season they may find
Another wolf to lead them.
Deputy.
My tongue fails,
And my heart sickens. Courtesy is rank,
When I must listen to such words as these,
And pick my feeble speech for France's sake.
Chancellor.
Pick nothing; speak thy thought as man to man.
And criticise. I adore criticism.
It is all in vain. Ye are too fiercely bent
On blood and most unhallowëd revenge.
Chancellor.
How now? Why, these are words for women. True,
I am a bugbear to the ancient dames
Of Europe, and the nations in their dread
Picture me cloven-footed; but do not thou,
A wise man in thy generation, echo
The stale flat talk of fools. Am I a vampire
That I should love this blood? I love mine ease—
My wine, my mistress—all earth's tasty things
In moderation—though I never suffer
The cup to cloud my reason and my soul,
Nor sell my manhood for a strumpet's kiss,
As ye have done in France. Yet I believe
There are worse hues than that of blood, and Life
Am your physician, though ye know me not.
Sick, body and soul, ye have polluted earth,
Ye have sown abroad that beauteous leprosy
Whereof your artists and your poets die,
But now in one supremer nobler hour
Your revellers, from the lupanar called,
Instead of sickening of a long disease
And rotting in the arms of harlotry,
Have passed in bloody martyrdom to God.
In truth the bitterest tears your eyes can weep
Will not too freely purge your heated orbs
Of their adulterous mist of lust and lies.
These are worse things than dying! things I deem
More pitiful than Death! Instead of these
We give ye sudden Conscience flasht from grief,
Fire for your Phrynes, and a naked Sword!
Deputy.
Then I, in France's name, for France's sake,
Reject the shallow puritanic lie,
The taunt and smile. The stale flat talk of fools
Offends thy sense, yet how thou echoest it!—
While ye ride rough-shod through the beauteous world,
Like Cromwell's English troopers singing hymns,
Not that your hearts are full of God at all,
But that it helps your feet to march in time,
While to the God of David ye intone,
Seeking the grimmest ever even in God,—
We, Frenchmen, subtly, delicately wrought,
Feel Him so keenly in the sense and soul,
Catch with so swift a sense of fragrancy
The divine truths of being, that our lives
Become too rich for your harsh utterance.
Fairer of spirit and more exquisite,
Subtler of sense, more sensual if thou wilt,
We tremble in the beautiful world God made;
Yea, loving Beauty for her own fair sake,
Perceiving her so marvellously fair,
In her we find an impulse and an end
Beyond your stale and flat morality.
To beauty and to music, which ye deem
The harlot's privilege and stock-in-trade;
We plant within our simplest daily needs
Spiritual sweetness and divine desire;
We stir to every wind of ecstasy;
We love no truth that is not beautiful,
Since Beauty is the highest truth of all,
The sum and end of human destiny.
Chancellor.
The glory of a strong man is his strength;
But ye—why ye are triflers; though I own
I like your novels; they are pleasant reading,
Most toothsome to the after-dinner taste.
Deputy.
O hear me! if a sneer could kill a race,
Then had ye Teutons died of Europe's sneer!
As ye abide, so shall the Frank abide.
To ye no delicate line of law divides
Beauty from harlotry; for ye are dull,
As tamely as ye sow and reap your corn;
And unto ye all rapturous sights and sounds,
All married interchange of sense and soul,
Are perilous, for ye dread the very Sun
May come upon your kitchen Danaës
And breed ye bastards in your own despite.
Nay, ye fear Beauty as some witch whose eyes
May hold ye like Tannhauser in the hills.
While ye have trumpeted God's wrath abroad,
While ye have driven His strength into men's hearts
As did the kings of ancient Israel,
We, we whom ye despised, have whispered low
God's secret; we have made the hand of Art
More reverent, human voice and instrument
More delicate, all sense of sight and sound
More cunning; one by one we have laid bare
The slender links that bind the soul of man
To all fair things whence it has grown and blown;
For if ye sing, ye sing more tenderly,
And if ye dream, ye dream more beautifully,
And if ye pray, perchance unconsciously
Ye blend into your prayer some beauteous sense
That till we Frenchmen cull'd it blew unguess'd.
All this we have done and more for Beauty's sake,
And this forsooth ye christen “harlotry.”
Ye are as Israël, and ye know no God
Unless He thunders; ye perceive no strength
Save when ye look upon a hurricane;
Your dry blood turns all beauty back to use,
By a coarse huswife's sampler fashioning
All gentle woofs of loveliness and youth,
Forgetting beauty blossoms out of use,
Not use from beauty, but from perfect use
The perfect flower of beauty crowning all.
Ye walk within a garden, and with care
And train your creeping virtues; but ye frown
If the birds sing too loud, the blossoms scent
Too richly; ye speak, think, act, live, walk, fight
As if the beauteous world wherein ye dwell
Were leagued against ye and confederate
To seize ye as the woman in the Book
The man of strength and rob ye of your hair;
And in the very light of woman's eyes
Ye Werthers see no grade between the stare
Of lawful women sadly giving suck,
And what forsooth ye christen “harlotry.”
Chancellor.
A Jeremiad out of Babylon!
Let us return—yield the Rhine provinces.
Deputy.
What more?
The rest is easy. These come first.
Deputy.
And I have answer'd. It can never be.
Chancellor.
Never? Why they are ours to have and hold.
Deputy.
To take is not to give. We give them not.
We will appeal to Europe, to the world;
We will call out with one imploring voice,
Waking the sleeping Conscience of the earth!
Chancellor.
Call. Scream. Have ye not call'd and screamed? As loud
As underneath your sallow Corsican
We called of old.
Ye did not call in vain.
Chancellor.
No; for our cause was righteous!—furthermore,
All backs like ours had felt that scourge of God.
But now 'tis otherwise; for ours indeed
Hath been a peaceful hand, and not a gauge,
A grim reminder and a daily threat,
A mailëd glove lying from day to day
Unlifted on the council-board of Kings;
We play no tyrant, but iconoclast;
And further, let me whisper in thine ear,
That were we thrice as bloody as ye deem,
The nations are too wise to risk the touch
Of that strong hand which like Bellerophon's
Hath slain the hugest Monster of the time.
Deputy.
They will not tamely see so foul a wrong.
We will call England.
Do not waste your breath:
England hath pined away into a voice.
Deputy.
Italy! Austria! Russia! Shall not God
Conjure a soul in one or all of these?
Chancellor.
Too late. The days of chivalry are o'er.
On this side Time there is no hope for France
Save swift submission to her certain doom,—
Confinement in her mighty prison-house
West of the Vosges, o'er whose jagged walls
Let her glare thirsty at the flowing Rhine;—
Thither indeed she comes not any more
In pomp of war or smile of amity.
Call? Let her call till thunder echoes her!
But verily, friend, that thunder will be ours,
Such as now beats at yonder City's gates
Startling the timid eyelids of the dawn.
Hearken! Our guns are serenading now
Her who was late the Mistress of the world.
Speak; save her; save her miserable sons,
Fighting in vain against the hurricane.
No longer dally idly with your doom
As ye were wont to do with women's hair;
Speak, and speak quickly, lest ye wholly die!
CHORUS.
A Distant Voice.
God! God! God!
Chorus.
Hearken, O hearken!
The heavens darken,
The storm is growing,
The skies are snowing,
Whiter and whiter
Grows the ground, and brighter
As we moan and listen;
Wind-blown unto us
A voice from the City
Thrills faintly through us.
Voice.
Lord God, have pity!
Chorus.
Gather in silence!
From mile on mile hence
Drearly is driven
Their cry to heaven;
Like the faint intoning
Of the ocean moaning,
Like the murmur creeping
Most faint and weak
From a dark cloud sleeping
On a mountain peak.
'Tis the feeble crying
Of the sick and dying,
They sink and sicken,
They thirst, and creeping
Together moan,
In the damp dew sleeping
Pillow'd on stone—
And Sorrow above them
With her frozen cheek
Stoops—but to move them
Her breath is weak,—
Till with blank eyes glazing,
And their faint breath fled,
They sit there gazing,
Frozen and dead.
A Voice.
Prepare!
Chorus.
Like the opening of eyes
In a horrible dream,
Like the flash in the skies
When the thunder-cloud flies,
It comes, and is gone;
The dark roars; and anon,
From fort to fort gleaming,
It burns in the night,
Till the long line is streaming
One glimmer of light—
Like the black swell that dashes
Round a headland and flashes
Foam-white!
A Voice within the City.
Woe! woe!
Chorus.
'Tis begun, and they cry in the street,
As lambs rush together and bleat!
And the Horror above and around
Springs to a serpentine sound.
Lo! where the fiery spheres curve
Up through the air without swerve;
See how the bolts one by one
Speed to the flash of the gun!
Look on the City, and mark
How they strike on the roofs, and in thunder
Crash, and in flame rend asunder
To the groan of stone turret and column,
To the scream of the slain, to the solemn
Deep toll of the bell in the spire!
Voices Within.
Fire! Fire!
Chorus.
See! where it springs in the air,
With a scream and a rush and a glare,
Out of the roofs, while beneath
Blacker flames wrestle and seethe;
Brighter and brighter! behold,
Wrapping the street in its fold,
Streaming and gleaming and burning,
Sinking, upspringing, returning,
Fierce, unappeasable, glowing
Red-shadow'd on turret and vane—
While black shades are coming and going,
Seeking to slake it in vain!
Steady! make ready! aim higher—
Into the heart of the fire!
Chorus.
See! how the fiery guns gleam,
Flashing like eyes in a dream!
Hark—how the air and the skies
Groan, and the City replies—
Voices Within.
God! God! God!
Chorus.
Where the flame is growing,
Leaping and blowing,
Where the people are calling,
See black rain falling,
Black rain, lead-rain,
Flashing to red rain,
Showering and flashing,
To the crumbling and crashing
Striking and gleaming,
To the hollow screaming
Of the stricken people,—
To the hollow thunder
Of the cannon call,
To the rending asunder
Of roof and wall!
And see! O Pity!
Answering,
Over the City
Fires upspring:
First dim, then lighter,
Then lighter, brighter,
Fire upon fire:
Till the air is glowing
And a red flame flowing
On every spire—
And dome and column
Gleam,—to the solemn
Incessant tolling
From street to street,
And hark, far under,
While we watch and wonder,
The deep drums beat!
[Day-break.
A Voice.
Forward for France!
Gather together! Advance!
Chorus.
See! like a black snake there crawls,
Under the fire of the walls,
A dark mass, and over the snow
Speeds for the camp of the foe:
River-like, silent and still,
It rolleth under the hill,
And out on the plain white and bare
Spreads silent and strange.
A Sentinel.
Who goes there?
A Voice.
Forward, for France!
Pray for France!
Voice.
Gather together! Advance!
Chorus.
Pray for them!
A Voice.
Fire!
Chorus.
God in heaven!
As a forest by lightning is riven,
As the rolls of the sea are plough'd white
By the wind, they are stricken; and bright
Blaze the manifold eyes of the fire
As they tremble and scream and expire;
Again and again and again,
Like the lightning-rent clouds of the rain,
Like the waves of the sea in the storm,
They gather together and form;
And again and again and again
They are scatter'd like hail, and the plain
Is black with the mounds of the slain.
Ploughs them as wind plougheth wheat!
O pray for them all! Pray for France!
A Voice.
Gather together! Advance!
Chorus.
Onward, still nearing
The eyes that flash on them;
Onward unfearing,
Tho' the death-bolts crash on them,
Torn asunder
By lightning and thunder,
Though the black shells thicken
And rain red death on them,
Rent and stricken,
With Fire's fierce breath on them,
Still forward winning,
But ever thinning,
Onward they go,
Over dying and dead,
Leaving the snow
Not white but red.
Furious, horrent,
From his lair in the dark
Springs the foe; and hark!
Like waters meeting
They gather and scream,
While drums are beating
And the death's-eyes gleam!—
Like trees of the forest
When the storm-wind is sorest,
Like waves of the ocean,
They meet in wild motion,
They reel, they advance,
They gather—they stand;
Their wild weapons glance,
They are scattered like sand.
A Voice.
Courage!—for France!
Another Voice.
Fatherland! fatherland!
The light is glowing
Around blood-red,
The winds are blowing,
And the clouds are snowing
On the heaps of dead.
The white snows cover them,
The swords flash over them,
Death waits each way for them,—
O bless them, pray for them!
They are mingled like water,
They are grappled in slaughter,
Face to face like wolves glaring,
With eyes fiercely staring,
Grappled and crying,
Rank within rank,
Dead, living, and dying,
Teuton and Frank;
Like a cloud struck by lightning
And rent into rain,
Darkening and brightening
They cover the plain.
Charge!
Voices of Cavalry.
Fatherland!
A Voice.
Gather together and stand!
Voices.
Charge!
Chorus.
Shaking the ground,
With a tramp and a roar,
With a torrent's force,
With a sound like the sound
Of the sea on the shore,
Come the Teuton horse.
How they ride! with their bare
Swords uplifted in air,
And each man bending low
O'er his steed's saddle-bow,
On they ride! On they go!
Now, screaming aloud,
They have struck on the crowd,
Like the wind on a cloud,
Like a knife at the heart;
It scatters, it rives
Into dark wreaths of lives
That struggle apart.
Voices.
Fly! fly! fly!
Chorus.
Hark how they scatter and cry!
Hark how a melody thin
Sounds the retreat from within—
See how they linger and die!
Voices.
Fly! fly! fly!
Chorus.
O woe, O woe,
Like storms that blow
Like waves that dash,
Crash after crash,
On a rock and break it not;
Like wind against tide, only beating it whiter,
Like wind striking fire and but making it brighter,
France striketh with passionate breath,
And closer and closer, and tighter and tighter,
The fiery Snake clings to her,
With glistening rings to her;
She moans, she grows feeble in death.
O pray for her! plead for her!
Cry! intercede for her!
Voices Within.
Bread! give us bread!
Chorus.
We hearken and sicken—
'Tis the famine-stricken.
Ah, the deep moan in the air,
Blown from the depths of despair.
Hark, too, drums beat and feet tread.
Go forth and bury the dead.
Chorus.
Silent still falleth the snow,
Still the clouds drive, the winds blow—
Again, like fierce eyes in a dream,
The dreadful guns open and gleam
To a hollow reverberation,
And the shriek of a shatter'd nation:
Column and turret are riven,
Shrieking fire springeth to heaven.
Woe for the city of splendour!
Man hath no pity to lend her!
He calleth Hell's legions to rend her!—
Her sins were against her God—
May God forgive her them;
She lieth opprest, under-trod,—
God striketh her hosts to the sod,
And His lightnings shiver them.
Voices Within.
Hear us, O God!
O God, deliver them!
The CHANCELLOR. A BONAPARTIST OFFICER.
Chancellor.
Bid him rest silent, watching from his prison
How the dice fall; for 'tis a game (he knows)
Where no man, let him reckon as he will,
Can quite sum up the chances.
Officer.
Is there hope?
He asks; and further, dost thou bid him hope?
Chancellor.
I know not. Why, hope comes of God, not man.
Officer.
Should he return and grasp his scatter'd crown,
Will ye oppose his path, or stand aside?
Now, softly;—there upon the earth he lies,
A thing we never loved, an idol of gold
We vowed to shatter; but we sought forsooth
To break him not destroy him; and perchance—
I say perchance—it might be well for Gaul
To take her ancient image for a space
In lieu of this red Spectre stalking now
Among the imperial shadows of the time.
Let him lie still, making no sign, and wait
For our uplifted finger. Time will show.
Officer.
How fares it with the broken hosts of France?
Chancellor.
Ill. Here come tidings. Stand aside and hear.
[Enter a Messenger.
Speak!
Messenger.
These despatches from the west. Like chaff
Before the strong fan of the winnower,
And Superstition, in the gloomy camp
Stalking phantasmic, awe the ignorant ranks
And scatter them along the dark, like mists
Wind-broken into thin and wavering rain.
The priest-rid peasants in the act to advance
Linger to pray, and trembling count their beads;
And tho' the frantic leaders scream their best,
And conjure in the name of all the saints,
The squadrons melt between two strange extremes —
The brute-stare of inaction and the fire
Of sudden panic scattering at one flash
These—oxen.
Chancellor
(to Officer.)
Dost thou hear?
Messenger.
Even as a man
Lured by the dancing ignis fatuus,
The Greek Bourbaki step by step withdrew
No longer held asunder, struck Le Mans
At midnight. 'Twas a bloody blow and brief!
We did divide the host, from bourne to bourne
Drove them, devour'd their wavering lines with fire,
While staring frantic at the flame-lit dark
The Bretons saw in mingled lineaments
All horrible the looks of friend and foe,
Struck in the darkness at each other's hearts,
Clung to each other, drove like breaking waves
Hither and thither with no aim and will;
And now, torn thus into two broken hosts,
They for whom hungry eyes watch day by day
Out of the City yonder, drift to the south
Swift as the storm-wreck when the storm is spent.
[Enter a Messenger.
Whence comest thou?
Messenger.
From Belfort. Thrice the sun
Arose and set above the bloody Luisne,
While hour by hour, ever repulsed, the French
Struck with despairing strength upon the line
Of brave Von Werder, which like some great rock
Stagger'd before the thunderbolt but stood;
And lo! even as a torrent spends itself
And scatters, the wild legions of the Greek
Fell back and broke with their own furious force.
And now, in bloody runlets, water-weak,
Southward they flow, a murmur in the fields,
A dark mass drifting to uncertain doom,
And with their impotent despairing cry,
Dies the last hope of all that strike for France.
Naked and bare,
A bloody sword upraising?
Who with thin moan
Glides past alone,
At the black heaven gazing?
Limbs thin and stark,
Eyes sunken and dark,
The lightning round her leaping?
What shape floats past
Upon the blast,
Crouching in pain and creeping?
Behold! her eyes to heaven are cast,
And they are red with weeping.
With lips of ice:
'Tis she—yea, and no other;
Look not at me
So piteously,
O France—O martyr mother!
O whither now,
With branded brow
Whither away?
O stand! O stay!
Tho' winds, waves, clouds are crying—
Dawn cometh swift—'twill soon be day—
The Storm of God is dying.
But, spent and weak,
Droops her proud head and goeth;
See! she crawls past,
Upon the blast,
Whither no mortal knoweth—
O'er fields of fight,
Where glimmer white
Death's steed and its gaunt rider—
Thro' storm and snow,
Behold her go,
With never a friend beside her—
O Shepherd of all winds that blow,
To Quiet Waters guide her!
Let her sad face
There spirit-sore
May she count o'er
Her sin, her shame, her error,—
And read with eyes
Made sweet and wise
What her strong God hath taught her,
With face grown fair
And bosom bare
And hands made clean from slaughter—
O Shepherd, seek and find her there,
Beside some Quiet Water!
CHANCELLOR. BUONAPARTIST OFFICER. A MESSENGER.
Messenger.
'Tis finished. In the south Gambetta screams,
Summoning all the winds to strike for France,
But the last breath is spent. The broken hosts
Have drifted wild into Helvetia,
And there, with faces sicker than the snow
That glimmers up above them silently,
Nothing abides to conquer. 'Tis not war,
But mere sheep-chasing in the shambles now;
And our strong legions hold their hands and smile,
Having no hearts to strike like martial men
At things so little worthy of their steel.
[Exit.
Chancellor.
I know not what strange potion they have drunk,
What black magician holds them with his arts,
But struggling with these Frenchmen is to fight
With Circe's swine; they know no head, no hand,
But go like driftweed up and down the tide;
The land they dwell in is to them as strange
As Egypt's sand-hills or the Russian snows
They huddle and starve on their own hearths, and find
The prospect foreign and barbarian;
They have no hearts, no stomachs, and they fall
Before our bolts as the affrighted hordes
Before the prodigies whose flash foredoom'd
The Roman and the Goth.
As easy 'twere to animate the dead,
Or fill a flock of oxen with one soul,
As fashion those false Frenchmen to the form
Thy fathers wore to darken Christendom.
Officer.
They lack indeed a name to conjure with;
I know of one might animate them yet.
Chancellor.
Not that, which like a wind-bag at Sedan
Burst with a puff of lean and braggart speech.
The Man of Elba were himself too weak
To fill this thin and broken frame of France:
But it is broken in the body too.
I tell thee only he thou servest made
This body what it is. Not such a soul
As filled it out of Buonaparté's breath,
But rather like a very Incubus,
Napoleon sat and fatten'd,—round the neck
Of France clung as a pamper'd slothful child
That drains the weary mother hour by hour:
A very Changeling, monstrous and unblest,
Ev'n such as thou hast heard thy grandam tell
Were dropt in peasants' cradles by the elves:
A crafty, strange, mysterious sort of birth,
Jealous, green-eyed, big-brain'd, and weak of feet,
Drawing not merely moisture from the breast
But blood and life itself. Nay, hear me out!
These changeling babes had oftentimes the skill
To make the mother love them, as indeed
Poor France did love her monster for a time,
And she forgave him even Mexico,
Because he smiled her down; and, day by day,
Fastened upon by her unnatural birth,
Crawled up and down the globe. For she was glad
Because the world was sunny, and the board
Well-stored, the fields most golden at her door,
Nor knew the fatal lips that drew her milk
Were subtly sucking at her strength and life.
Not till the thing fell from her, and the foe
Sprang at her, did she learn her feebleness,
Limbs, tongue, eyes, heart, all fail'd her as she strove,
Though with the fury of a thing that dies
She clings with weakening clutches to the end.
CHORUS.
Strophe I.
Ay me, to dwell in some remote still valley,
Far from the civil fret and martial pride,
To sit by some sweet river musically
Singing for shepherds piping happy-eyed;
Ay me, to quit sad cities and abide
Where never sword is drawn or trumpet blown,
Where the slow hours from morn to eventide,
Sweet, silent, and alone,
Move like a feeding flock on some green mountain-side.
Antistrophe I.
For my heart bleeds, my soul with tears is swelling,
To see mankind so tame to taunts and stings,
How, knowing not the might within them dwelling,
They take the tyrant's yoke like soulless things;
Crouch, crawl beneath the lash of underlings,
And even as silly sheep are bought and sold,
Driven from the pleasant pasture and the fold,
Slain for a little gold,
Slaughter'd forsooth like beasts, to please the whim of Kings.
Strophe II.
And even as silly seals in summer weather,
With large eyes listening, from the deep below
Rise up, and gather hearkening together,
Because some cunning fisher fluteth slow,
And follow sleepily while the seamen row,
And so are led to doom and have no fear;—
Even such as these are foolish mortals here,
With empty eyes that neither see nor know,
But blankly gaze and peer,
And follow a vain sound wherever it doth go.
Antistrophe II.
And, one by one, out of the wondrous portal,
Whose backward darkness no man's eye may read,
And him the foolish people follow indeed,
Crying, “This is no man of mortal seed,
But more divine than any human thing!”
And in his steps they follow clamouring;
Whither he listeth, though their sore feet bleed,
They follow him their King,—
Until he sinks, and lo! some other comes to lead.
Strophe III.
O mortal men, awake, and gather, and go not;
Hear wise men speak, hear God's own prophets cry.
Be not as poor tame things that see not, know not,
But smile, and let the unnatural birth go by;
Stop ye your ears against its human sigh,
Yea, send it forth to sow and reap the grain,
As ye do, underneath the peaceful sky;
Or hold it with a chain;
And if all chains are vain, strike it and let it die.
Choir
Without.
Gloria Deo! Floreat Imperator!
Antistrophe III.
O hearken, hearken! for I hear a crying
Of many voices, and the clang of swords,
With what strange cry do voices multiplying
Rend the day's darkness into thunderous words?
“Glory to God!” cry these triumphant hordes,
Having made sacrifice most manifold;
And unto Him the armëd people hold,
A foolish King and old;
“Glory to God!” they cry;—yea, glory is the Lord's.
Choir
Without.
Glorea Deo! Floreat Patria!
Epode.
Creep closer, hearkening. 'Tis a sound like thunder,
Deep as the roll of waves on some sad shore,
And, listening, our hearts are torn asunder.
Would we might die! would that the world were o'er!
For life is bitter, and mere breath is sore,
Seeing how mortal men are slain and slay
At will of each new creature of a day,
Oh might we pass away,
Die, cease, be done with earth; slumber, and see no more.
CHORUS. A MESSENGER.
Messenger.
Why, women, do ye linger pale-faced here,
Hearkening, each with hand upon her heart?
Chorus.
We hear glad sounds, the tread of mailëd feet,
The playing of light music, and, moreover,
The organ's plagal cadence deep and low.
Voices.
Gloria in excelsis Deo!
Chorus.
Hark!
Yonder the City burns and moans; and here
There comes a ripple of music and glad speech.
'Tis a blest day. Within the triumph-hall
They hail our Wilhelm German Emperor.
Voices.
Gloria Deo! Plaudite, omnes gentes!
Chorus.
O woe!—while France lies bleeding at his feet!
Messenger.
Hush; and stand back—why do ye wring your hands?
See; 'tis a sight to make an old man young.
[The Scene opens, revealing the interior of the Hall of Mirrors. The Kaiser, surrounded by the Princes and Leaders of the host. Priests pronouncing the Benediction, and Choristers intoning. Organ-music.
A Rainbow of the mighty of the Earth
Arching the great grey head; and mirror'd back,
A gleaming of rich robes, a flash of steel,
Waves of uplifted faces round the King,
All phosphorescent with their own wild light,
Like to the sea washing an ocean isle
Purpled with blooms and dim with orient gold.
Choir,
Gloria in excelsis Deo!
Kaiser.
From Him the Highest, who alone can give,
This day I take the great imperial Crown
I sought not; at His bidding, at His hands,
I take the Crown and I uplift the Sword.
Choir.
Cantate Deo! Jubilate, gentes!
Priest.
Hark to the Song of the Sword!
In the beginning, a Word
And He said, “The Earth shall be,
And around the Earth the Sea,
And over these twain the Skies;
And out of the Earth shall rise
Man, the last and the first;
And Man shall hunger and thirst,
And shall eat of the fruits in the sun,
And drink of the streamlets that run,
And shall find the wild yellow grains,
And, opening earth, in its veins
Sow the seeds of the same; for of bread
I have written that he shall be fed.”
Thus at the first said the Lord.
Choir.
Hark to the Song of the Sword!
The Priest.
Then Man sowed the grain, and to bread
Kneaded the grain, and was fed,
He and his household indeed
To the last generation and seed:
Sat by the waters of gold,
And ate of the bread and the fruit,
And drank of the stream, but made suit
For blessing no more than the brute.
And God said, “'Twere better to die
Than eat and drink merely, and lie
Beast-like and foul on the sod,
Lusting, forgetful of God!”
And He whispered, “Dig deeper again,
Under the region of grain,
And bring forth the thing ye find there
Shapeless and dark; and prepare
Fire,—and into the same
Cast what ye find—let it flame—
And when it is burning blood-bright,
Pluck it forth, and with hammers of sleight
Beat it out, beat it out, till ye mark
The thing that was shapeless and dark
Grown beautiful, azure, and keen,
Purged in the fire and made clean,
Beautiful, holy, and bright,
Gleaming aloft in the light;—
Then lift it, and wield!” said the Lord.
Hark to the Song of the Sword!
Priest.
Then Man with a brighter desire
Saw the beautiful thing from the fire,
And the slothful arose, and the mean
Trembled to see it so keen,
And God, as they gather'd and cried,
Thunder'd a Word far and wide:
“This Sword is the Sword of the Strong!
It shall strike at the life's blood of wrong;
It shall kill the unclean, it shall wreak
My doom on the shameful and weak;
And the strong with this sign in their hands
Shall gather their hosts in the lands,
And strike at the mean and the base,
And strengthen from race on to race;
And the weak shall be wither'd at length,
For the glory of Man in his strength,
And the weak man must die,” saith the Lord.
Hark to the Song of the Sword!
Priest.
Sire, whom all men of thy race
Name as their hope and their grace;
King of the Rhine-water'd land,
Heart of the state and its hand,
Thou of the purple and crown,
Take, while thy servants bow down,
The Sword in thy grasp.
Kaiser.
It is done.
Priest.
Uplift! let it gleam in the sun—
Uplift in the name of the Lord!
Choir.
Hail to the King and the Sword!
Lo! how it gleams in the light,
Beautiful, bloody, and bright—
Such in the dark days of yore
The monarchs of Israel bore;
Such by the angels of heaven
To Charles the Mighty was given—
Yea, I uplift the Sword,
Thus in the name of the Lord!
The Chiefs.
Form ye a circle of fire
Around him, our King and our Sire—
While in the centre he stands,
Kneel with your swords in your hands,
Then with one voice deep and free
Echo like waves of the sea—
“In the name of the Lord!”
Chancellor.
Sire, while thou liftest the Sword,
Thus in the name of the Lord,
My voice with the hosts that attend—
Yea, and while kneeling I hold
A scroll writ in letters of gold,
With the names of the monarchs who bow
Thy liegemen throned lower than thou;
Moreover, in letters of red,
Their names who ere long must be led
To thy feet, while thou liftest the Sword,
Thus in the name of the Lord!
Voices
Without.
Where is he?—he fades from our sight!
Where the Sword?—all is blacker than night.
Is it finish'd, that loudly ye cry?
Doth he sheathe the great Sword while we die?
O bury us deep, most deep;
Write o'er us, wherever we sleep,
“In the name of the Lord!”
Kaiser.
While I uplift the Sword,
Thus in the name of the Lord,
Am I sick of the song in mine ears?
God of the Israelite, hear;
God of the Teuton, be near;
Strengthen my pulse lest I fail,
Shut out these slain while they wail—
For they come with the voice of the grave
On the glory they give me and gave.
Chorus.
In the name of the Lord? Of what Lord?
Where is He, this God of the Sword?
Unfold Him; where hath He his throne?
Is he Lord of the Teuton alone?
Doth He walk on the earth? Doth he tread
On the limbs of the dying and dead?
Unfold him! We sicken, and long
To look on this God of the strong!
Priest.
Hush! In the name of the Lord,
Kneel ye, and bless ye the Sword!
Bless it for saved and for slain,
For the sake of the dead in the tomb,
For the sake of the child in the womb,
For the sake of these Kings on the knee,
For the sake of a world it shall free!
Bless it, the Sword! bless the Sword!
Yea, in the name of the Lord!
Chiefs.
Deepen the circle of Fire
Around him, our King and our Sire!
While in our centre he towers,
Kneeling, ye spirits, ye powers,
Bless it and bless it again,
Bless it for saved and for slain,
Bless ye the beautiful Sword,
Aloud in the name of the Lord!
Kaiser.
In the name of the Lord!
In the name of the Lord!
The Choir.
By Father, and Son, and Spirit,
By the Name and the Word,
By the blood of Christ we inherit—
Lord of the Rhenish land,
Heart of the state and its hand,
Take the Sword of the Lord,
Uplift and bear it!
Round the German lands that are one with it,
Where in sweet accord
Fair streams fall into and run with it,
Rise with the Sword in thy hand,
Glory and strength of the land;
Take the Sword from the Lord,
Stand up in the sun with it!
'Tis done; and His hand hath deckt thee:
By the Light Adored,
None may henceforth reject thee—
Heart of the Fatherland,
Heart and spirit and hand,
The Lord and the Word and the Sword,
Keep and protect thee!
The Kaiser.
Princes, and powers, and principalities,
Kings, brethren, round whose lands the Rhine rolls waves
Blue as the German heaven that bends above,
Ye who henceforth shall shine around our throne
Like glorious constellations, in your places
Set by God's hand as light for human eyes,
Friends, brethren, Kings and kinsmen, words are weak,
All oratory dumb, music too faint,
All art too feeble and inadequate,
To measure the large issue of this day.
Leading them whither He listeth; and that God—
Albeit at first I trembled at His hand,
Albeit the path seem'd dark before my feet,
And my heart fail'd me since the path was strange—
That God hath led me hither, safe, supreme,
Chief of a living people, arm and heart,
A King, the seed of Kings, and chosen head
Of Kings anointed. Him, the King of Kings,
Before whose feet I am as dust, I praise;
And though the embers of my life grow cold,
And snow is on my hair, and in mine eyes
Doubt and a gathering darkness, Him I bless
That He hath led me just before the end
As to a mountain-summit, whence I see,
Not darkly, but with most ineffable light,
A fair long prospect of regenerate days;
And even as one upon a lofty height
I hear afar-off very faint and sweet
The murmur of glad cities, the deep hum
Of happy millions moving to and fro
In gentle interchange of life and love.
That land which robbers pillaged in the night,
That land we have redeem'd with precious blood,
Is blest henceforth, and the bright sword I hold
May in the strong hands of my son become
No firebrand but a symbol; not a thing
Left like the steel of some old warrior
To rust upon the wall, but ever bright
And beauteous; not a firebrand, not a threat,
But part of pomp and peaceful pageantry,
Flashing with memorable light and fire
Into the hungry eyes of those who prowl
Like wolves around the pastures and the pens
Where the Great Shepherd in the beginning set
The nations of the earth. Yea, may it rise,
Beautiful, terrible, and fiery fair,
Like to the living sword that trembled o'er
The golden Gates of Eden; and beneath
May very Eden blossom: light and flowers,
Rich vineyards, yellow harvests, hamlets glad
Gleaming in sunlight point the path to peace,—
The Land of the great River, yours and mine,
Our birthright, given back at last by God
To be the heirloom of our latest seed!
The Chiefs.
Flash the sword!—and even as thunder
Utter ye one living voice,—
While the watching nations wonder,
Hills of Fatherland, rejoice:
Echo!—echo back our prayers and acclamations!
Chorus.
France, O Mother! lie and hearken,
Make no bitterer sign of woe,
Here within thee all things darken,
All things brighten with thy foe:
Hush thy weeping; still thy bitter lamentations.
Flash the sword!—A voice is flowing
From the Baltic bound in white,
Though 'tis blowing chill and snowing,
Blue-eyed Teutons see the light.
And the far white hills of Norway hear the crying.
Chorus.
Thou too hearkenest, Mother dearest,
Thou too hearkenest through thy tears,
And thou tremblest as thou hearest,
For 'tis thunder in thine ears;
And thou gazest on the dead and on the dying.
The Chiefs.
Lübeck answers and rejoices,
Though her dead are brought to her;
Potsdam thunders; there are voices
In the fields of Hanover;
And the spirits of the lonely Hartz awaken.
And in France's vales and mountains
Hands are wrung and tears are shed;
Women sit by village fountains,
And the water bubbles red.
O comfort, O be of comfort—ye forsaken!
The Chiefs.
O'er Bavarian woods and rivers,—
Where the Brunswick heather waves,—
On the glory goes and quivers
Through the Erzgebirge caves;
And the swords of Styria gleam like moonlit water.
Chorus.
There is silence, there is weeping
On the bloody banks of Seine,
And the unburied dead are sleeping
In the fields of trampled grain;
While the roadside Christs stare down on fields of slaughter.
Flash the Sword! Where need is sorest,
Sitting in the lonely night,
While the wind in the Black Forest
Moans, the woodman sees the light;
And the hunters wind the horn and hail each other.
Chorus.
Strasbourg sits among her ashes
With a last despairing cry,
East and west red ruin flashes
With a red light on the sky.
Not a word! Sit yet and hearken, O my mother!
The Chiefs.
Flash the sword! The glades of Baden
Echo; Jena laughs anon;
Dresden old and Stuttgart gladden,
There is mirth in Ratisbon:—
And underneath the Linden there is leaping.
In thine arms the horror tarries,
And the sword-flash gleams on thee,
Hide thy funeral face, O Paris,
Do not hearken; do not see;
Electra, clasp thine urn—and hush thy weeping.
The Chiefs.
Hamburg kindles, and her women
Sadly smile remembering all;
There are bitter smiles in Bremen,
Where Vandamme's fierce feet did fall;
But the Katzbach, O the Katzbach laugheth loudly!
Chorus.
Comfort, mother! hear not, heed not;
Let the dead bury the dead!
Fold thy powerless hands and plead not,
They remember sorrows fled,
And their dead go by them, silently and proudly.
O that Fritz's soul could hear it
In the walks of Sans Souci!
O to waken Lützow's spirit,
Richter writes thus of the corps organized by Lützow during the German War of Liberation:—
“With the utmost truth we may say that in Lützow's volunteer corps lived the idea of the war. The universal enthusiasm elevated itself here to a noble self-consciousness. In the other corps this and that individual might attain the same high intellectual position that was the property here of the whole body; the soldier entered with full sympathy into the dignity of his personal mission, and fought from clear conviction, not from blind impulse. Those loose and roving adventurers that to a certain extent will always mix themselves up with a volunteer corps, were kept in check here by the number of high and noble spirits with whom they found themselves in daily communion. Here, whatsoever glowed with holy revenge against the recklessness of a foreign tyranny; whatsoever, in other parts of Europe, had manifested itself to be animated by a spirit of unyielding animosity to Napoleon's despotism; whosoever had learned, under long-conquering banners, to curse the conquests, and to despise the conqueror, were gathered together in one knot of many-coloured but one-hearted fellowship. These men were all penetrated by the conviction that, in the nature of things, no power merely military, no cunning of the most refined despotism, can in the long-run triumph over native freedom of thought and tried force of will. They looked upon themselves as chosen instruments in the hand of the divine Nemesis, and bound themselves by a solemn oath to do or to die. They were, in fact, virtually free when Germany yet lay in chains; and for them the name of ‘Free Corps’ (Frei Schaar) had a deeper signifiance than that of free (volunteer) soldiers. Here the deed of the individual was heralded by the thought that measured inwardly, and rejoiced in the perception of its own capability. Here the triumphant spirit of patriotism broke forth in song, in poetry, which is the outspread wing of enthusiasm. The prince, the philosopher, the bard served under Lützow, as volunteers, in the humblest capacity. The Prince of Karolath, Steffens, Jahn, Theodore Körner, and many other consecrated names belonged to this noble body; nay, even females, under well-concealed disguises, came boldly forward to share with this brave band all the toils and hardships of the sterner sex. The enemies of France, from Spain and the Tyrol, joined themselves to this corps, trusting to find here, at length, that revenge of their righteous cause which a mysterious Providence had hitherto delayed. Riedl and Ennemoser commanded a body of Tyrolese sharpshooters, and among them was the son of Andrew Hofer. From the French armies, Dutchmen and Saxons, Westphalians and Altmarkers, rejoiced to belong to the “Black Corps” (Die Schwarze Schaar), as these troops, from their uniform, were familiarly named. In the whole body there was scarcely an individual who, on the plea of personal history or qualities, might not claim peculiar distinction. And so free were they from all prejudices of class, so jealous in a high self-respect, that no person was admitted into their number who refused to serve as a common Jäger. Their fame has remained among the printed records of the war; a separate volume eternizes the exploits of a small body of not more than 3,400 warriors!”
Blucher's too, the grim and free;
And the Jäger, the wild Jäger, would they listen'd!
Chorus.
Comfort, mother! O cease weeping!
Let the past bury the past:
Faces of the slain and sleeping
Gleam along upon the blast.
Yea, 'twas “Leipsic” that they murmur'd as they glisten'd.
The Chiefs.
All the land of the great River
Slowly brightens near and far;
Lost for once, and saved for ever,
Körner's spirit like a star
Shooteth past, and all remember the beginning.
They are rising, they are winging,
Spirits of her singers dead,
'Tis an old song they are singing—
Fold thy hands and bow thy head—
But they sing for thee too, gentle to thy sinning.
The Chiefs.
And the River to the ocean
Rolls; and all its castles dim
Gleam; and with a shadowy motion,
Like a mist upon its brim,
Rise the Dead,—and look this way with shining faces.
Chorus.
Thine, too, rise!—and darkly cluster,
Moaning sad around thee now,
In their eyes there is no lustre,
They are cold as thy cold brow—
Let them vanish; let them sleep in their dark places.
Flash the sword! In the fair valleys
Where the scented Neckar flows,
Fair-hair'd Teutons lift the chalice,
And the winter vineyard grows,
And the almond forests tremble into blossom.
Chorus.
On thy vineyards the cold daylight
Gleams, and they are deathly chill—
Women wander in the grey light,
And the lean trees whistle shrill;
Hold thine urn, O martyr mother, to thy bosom.
The Chiefs.
Flash the sword!—Sweet notes of pleasure
O'er the Rhenish upland swell,
And the overhanging azure
Sees itself in the Moselle.
All the land of the great River gleams and hearkens!
Dost thou hear them? dost thou see them?
There 'tis gladness, here 'tis pain;
One great spirit comes to free them
But he holds thee with a chain.
All the land of the great City weeps and darkens!
The Chiefs.
River of the mighty people,
Broaden to the sea and flow—
Mirror tilth and farm and steeple,
Darken with boats that come and go.
Flow gently, like a babe that smiles and prattles.
Chorus.
Yea! and though thou flow for ever,
Bright and bloodless as to-day,
Scarcely wilt thou wash, O River,
Thy dark load of dead away,
O bloody River! O field of many battles!
On with great immortal waters
Brightening to a day divine,
Through the fields of many slaughters
Freely roll, O German Rhine.
Let the Teuton drink thy wine and wax the stronger.
Chorus.
On and on, O mighty River,
Flow through lands of corn and vine—
Turn away, O France, for ever,
Look no more upon the Rhine;
On the River of many sorrows look no longer.
The Chiefs.
Lo! the white Alps for a token
With the wild aurora gleam,
And the Spectre of the Brocken
Stands aloft with locks that stream,—
All the land of the great River can behold it!
Hide thine eyes and look not thither!
For in answer to their cries,
Fierce the Phantasm gazeth hither
With an Avenging Angel's eyes;
It is fading, and the mists of storm enfold it!
The Kaiser. The Chiefs. The Imperial Chancellor. The Governor of Paris.
Chancellor.
Behold! where even in our triumph-hour
Comes one with feet that linger, head that droops,
And eyes that pour their fire upon the ground.
Chorus.
Woe to thee, Paris; then thy cup is full.
Governor.
O Sire and Princes, leaders of the host,
Kings, soldiers, strangers, hither have I come
Woe in mine heart and on mine eyelids tears,
To offer up my sword, and on my knees,
Not used to bend their joints to mortal men,
To hold your skirts imploring in the name
Of the Imperial City overthrown,
Paris, the fallen Regent of the world.
There Fire hath cast our fairest temples down,
And now in the black embers flickers faint
Ready to spring once more; and Frost is there,
Most silent, with the paralysing touch
Of skeleton fingers, feeling for the heart
Under the thin rags blown apart by wind;
And, worst and direst, in the open square,
Witless upon a pile of fleshless bones
Sits Famine, smiling with a hungry eye
At Pestilence, who at her dark feet heaps
The blotch'd and swollen faces of the dead
In silence; and these four full well have done
Your dreadful bidding, serving as they do
The strong man ever against the weak. But now,
I bid ye, I beseech ye, call them off,
Uplift your hands, and leave us, and depart.
I do not think your eyes may contemplate
More closely what ye have done; but silently,
Seeing we lay our arms down at your feet
And seeing we are broken as a reed,
Turn ye your conquering faces otherwhere
And leave this City once named “Beautiful”
To cleanse herself and feed her hungry brood
And wear her sackcloth, praying all alone
With open gates for food, and warmth, and light,
The homeward flying swallow and green shoots
Heralding harvest. For the sad red sun
Must come and go for many a dreadful day,
Ere these things ye have sent against her life
Perish forgotten; and for many a day
Earth must be open'd for the countless dead
And dying; and indeed the City sad
Needeth the darkness of her own deep shame,
That she may hide herself from all men's sight,
Until she is clothëd, and the piteous wounds
Wherefore, O leaders of the Teuton host,
Accept our swords, our lives, but turn aside
Your faces, seeking not to look upon
More sorrow, nor to pass the dreadful gates;
For should ye gaze on our poor Paris now,
The scorn of your proud eyes, as sharp as steel,
Would stab her to the heart and she would die:
Or madden'd, anguish'd, with her dying breath,
Gather the last strength of supreme despair,
And seek to drag ye with her unto doom.
Kaiser.
Yield up thy sword, and waste no further breath;
Turn thine appeal to God, and go thy way.
The Chiefs.
Glory to God. Long live the Emperor!
'Tis finished; at our feet great France lies dead.
Chorus.
O God who leadest on the mortal race,
Whither they know not, through the wondrous years,
Thou mystery whose sad meaning none may trace,
Light on our eyes and Music in our ears,
Spirit that punishest and scatterest grace,
Lord of all losses and all doubts and fears,
Shedding upon the self-same hour and place
The doubt that maddens and the faith that cheers,—
Is there ever a smile upon a living face
That doth not mean some living face's tears?
The Drama of Kings | ||