CLXXI.THE OLD FRENCH TELEGRAPHS.
I
On many a treeless knoll and lofty church,
Or on the unsteady fabric of a keep
More than half ruined, or a natural steep,
These wizard ministers of science perch,
Like some dark birds that for awhile alight,
To dress their pinions for a longer flight.
For such against the cloudless azure seem
Their long black fans, now raised as if to soar,
Now slowly furled as though the flight were o'er:
Mute, mute and busy, even like a dream,
Telling a stirring tale, and yet as still
As the sweet stars, or with a murmuring
Soft as the wafture of a stockdove's wing,
Or breeze that chafes the poplars on the hill.
II
What though it write its ciphers on the sky,
With graceless gesture, yet that wondrous Hand,
Waving from steep to tower across the land,
Annulling space, apt symbol may supply
To clothe grave thoughts withal: from Calais gate
To old Bayonne, from Alps to Pyrenees,
Yon silent words outstrip the wind, and freight
The slanting sunbeam with their messages.
Such are the signals, beckoning night and day
Through the wide camp of Angels that essay
Even now this glorious kingdom to recast
With patient art in faith's magnificent mould,
To make it saintly as the France of old,
And rivet once again its broken past.
III
God speed the blissful work, thou famous land!
And do not thou the unearthly change reprove;
Since He, who left thee with reluctant love
To thine own ways, again puts forth His Hand.
O France! all license gained is but a loss
Of liberty; and thou wert then most free
When thou wert proud, with blameless pride, to be
Nought but the foremost vassal of the Cross.
Is it the Midland Sea, or do I hear
Celestial converse in the olives near?
“Our task is half complete: the Civil Power,
Outworn with ills which it hath overcome,
Falls back upon the Holy Church, and Rome
In trembling expectation waits the hour!”
