University of Virginia Library

THE WARNING.

I stood with others in a Paris street,
And watched the soldiers marching to the war.
Their silken colours fluttered in the breeze,
Their polished bayonets glittered in the sun,
Their martial music played a merry tune,
And each man bore a flower or sprig of green
Stuck in his cap, or fastened to his gun;
And as they went, they loudly laughed and sang,
And aimed a jest at many a looker-on.
But all around a gloomy silence reigned,
And not a word in answer did they get,
But every face a look of pity wore.
'Tis strange, I thought, that those who die should laugh,
And those should mourn whose fate it is to live.
An old old woman standing by my side,
All shrunk and bent, with hair as white as snow,
Put out her hands and cried aloud, “O God!
The wretched boys are singing! Don't they know
That they are marching to the butcher's shop?”
But all unheeding passed the human stream;
Her warning words fell on no ear but mine.
She still stood there long after they had passed,
And still I saw her shake her aged head,
As the gay sounds in distance died away.
And well she might; ere three short weeks had passed,
Most of those men were killed at Mars-la-Tour.
'Tis thus perhaps the white-winged angels stand
By the roadside of this our daily life,
And wring their hands, and call in vain to stop,
As we pass by, with jest and laugh and song,
And hurry on to many a bitter end.
Man laughs the loudest on the road to ruin—
A hollow laugh, no doubt, but loud enough
To drown the voice that warns him of his fate.