 | Later Lyrics |  |
175
1830 AND 1853.
An old man mazed and wild
Bearing a blond-haired child,
A woman blind with tears,—
The mournful train sweeps on;
And the monarchy is gone
For all the coming years.
Bearing a blond-haired child,
A woman blind with tears,—
The mournful train sweeps on;
And the monarchy is gone
For all the coming years.
They would have lingered slow,
For their hearts beat faint and low,
Their lives were a feeble spoil;
But the power that's new and strong
Cries, “Hasten them along,
Away from their native soil!”
For their hearts beat faint and low,
Their lives were a feeble spoil;
But the power that's new and strong
Cries, “Hasten them along,
Away from their native soil!”
176
But I can stop, and sigh
At this grief of years gone by,—
An old man's fault and fall,—
And say that the exile's woe
Is a piteous thing to know,
Is the heaviest weird of all.
At this grief of years gone by,—
An old man's fault and fall,—
And say that the exile's woe
Is a piteous thing to know,
Is the heaviest weird of all.
In a palace bare and old
That a royal race left cold,
These children of the sun
Shall moulder in faded state,
Till the sentence, soon or late,
Remove them every one.
That a royal race left cold,
These children of the sun
Shall moulder in faded state,
Till the sentence, soon or late,
Remove them every one.
Perhaps the shade of her,
For whom brave blood doth stir
To this day in gallant breasts,
Moved through the dusky pile,
And welcomed with sad smile
The old ancestral crests.
For whom brave blood doth stir
To this day in gallant breasts,
Moved through the dusky pile,
And welcomed with sad smile
The old ancestral crests.
177
The France that gave her birth,
Land of delight and mirth
Her lips were fond to bless,
Rolled this one shattered wave
Across her foreign grave
For very tenderness.
Land of delight and mirth
Her lips were fond to bless,
Rolled this one shattered wave
Across her foreign grave
For very tenderness.
She stands beside his knee,
And, looking wistfully
Upon his reverend head,
Sighs, “Uncle, are you come
From our belovèd home?
'Tis better to be dead!”
And, looking wistfully
Upon his reverend head,
Sighs, “Uncle, are you come
From our belovèd home?
'Tis better to be dead!”
O England! glad and free,
With thine own liberty
Endow thy trembling guest;
Stretch soft thy mantle where
He feels the wintry air,
And fondle him to rest.
With thine own liberty
Endow thy trembling guest;
Stretch soft thy mantle where
He feels the wintry air,
And fondle him to rest.
178
But, lo! a wilder sob,
A swift and mighty throb;
And towards the rugged North,
With exiled steps of pain,
And fevered eye and brain,
Tis France herself goes forth.
A swift and mighty throb;
And towards the rugged North,
With exiled steps of pain,
And fevered eye and brain,
Tis France herself goes forth.
'Tis France; for 'neath the sun
Freedom and she were one
Five little years ago.
Her glorious flag they fold
As a thing disused and old:
“We have other fashions now.”
Freedom and she were one
Five little years ago.
Her glorious flag they fold
As a thing disused and old:
“We have other fashions now.”
Her sons must seek their bread,
And lay the weary head
In countries cold and lone;
Their halls are desolate;
The friends that made them great,
Their works, and days, are gone.
And lay the weary head
In countries cold and lone;
Their halls are desolate;
The friends that made them great,
Their works, and days, are gone.
179
Nay, never flee, but stand,
Your good sword in your hand,
And cry your watchword true.
Drive the pursuer back:
The foe upon your track
Is mortal, even as you.
Your good sword in your hand,
And cry your watchword true.
Drive the pursuer back:
The foe upon your track
Is mortal, even as you.
His slimy, serpent ways;
His cold, voluptuous days;
His coffers, guilt-increased;
Your fathers' hearths grow cold,
Yourselves in exile old,
That he may reign and feast.
His cold, voluptuous days;
His coffers, guilt-increased;
Your fathers' hearths grow cold,
Yourselves in exile old,
That he may reign and feast.
His infant let him fold
In cloth of silk and gold,
Feeding on pearly food:
That child of bastard race,
Let it, too, find a place
In quiet Holy rood.
In cloth of silk and gold,
Feeding on pearly food:
That child of bastard race,
Let it, too, find a place
In quiet Holy rood.
180
Flame lights the sunken cheek;
But the exile's hand is weak,
Weightless for good or ill:
Heaven give him sufferance!
But thou, great land of France,
But God, what is thy will?
But the exile's hand is weak,
Weightless for good or ill:
Heaven give him sufferance!
But thou, great land of France,
But God, what is thy will?
Oh! never read to-day,
Oh! stretching far away
Where stars revolve and burn,—
The lessons of the free,
The good that is to be,
My children wait to learn.
Oh! stretching far away
Where stars revolve and burn,—
The lessons of the free,
The good that is to be,
My children wait to learn.
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