 | Ballads of the North and Other Poems |  |
126
THE SIEGE OF STRASBURG.
The siege of Strasburg !—for in those dread days,
Strasburg the Virgin stood before her foes
More helpless, hopeless, than Andromeda;
Chained to her pile, but with fair-fronting eyes,
And breast bare to the pitiless storm that smote,
And smote her bleeding but inviolate limbs;
While round and over her the iron hail
By day fell, and the red rain fell by night,—
And knew no succour coming nor to come;
And still endured, and made no sign, and said,
‘The end is not yet come, and day by day
My agony shall stay their feet from France;
Therefore I die by inches.’ And all knew
Her doom was on her; and the world without
Sent never a message to her, nor farewell,
Nor any eye met hers but the ringed eyes
Of the grey cannon, round against her set,
That marked each shuddering and each streak of fire,
As the bombs struck her and she still endured.
Strasburg the Virgin stood before her foes
More helpless, hopeless, than Andromeda;
Chained to her pile, but with fair-fronting eyes,
And breast bare to the pitiless storm that smote,
And smote her bleeding but inviolate limbs;
While round and over her the iron hail
By day fell, and the red rain fell by night,—
And knew no succour coming nor to come;
And still endured, and made no sign, and said,
‘The end is not yet come, and day by day
My agony shall stay their feet from France;
Therefore I die by inches.’ And all knew
Her doom was on her; and the world without
Sent never a message to her, nor farewell,
127
Of the grey cannon, round against her set,
That marked each shuddering and each streak of fire,
As the bombs struck her and she still endured.
But once for mercy spake aloud, as when
She sent her girls and children to the gates,
Having kissed them as who should not meet again,
And said, heart-broken, ‘Let but these depart.’
And back the answer came to her, ‘Too late!
Die all—or yield—together.’ So they stayed.
And as the fire waxed fiercer round her heart,
Prayed yet once more in her extremity,
‘Send us some draught of sleep, some fever balm,
For those who lie with lips and limbs on fire
Within our hospitals!’ And yet once more
The answer was sent back to her, ‘Too late!
No more till the surrender!’ Then she ceased,
And prayed no more to man, nor yet to God;
And all her thousands set themselves to death
Within her walls, and starved to skeletons,
Or sickened in the darkness underground,
And came forth but for burial of their dead.
And ever overhead the heaven was brass,
And through the empty streets the sheets of fire
From house to house by daylight scorched and leapt,
While the continuous rocking roar was yet
O'ercrashed a moment as the roofs fell in.
And week by week the faces that remained
Grew greyer, ghastlier; and her soldiery
Dropped at their posts, and mangled limbs were strewn
On their own hearths, and, as the shells came through,
Her little children in their mother's arms
Were torn to pieces, and her babes were born
Between the boomings as their fathers died.
She sent her girls and children to the gates,
Having kissed them as who should not meet again,
And said, heart-broken, ‘Let but these depart.’
And back the answer came to her, ‘Too late!
Die all—or yield—together.’ So they stayed.
And as the fire waxed fiercer round her heart,
Prayed yet once more in her extremity,
‘Send us some draught of sleep, some fever balm,
For those who lie with lips and limbs on fire
Within our hospitals!’ And yet once more
The answer was sent back to her, ‘Too late!
No more till the surrender!’ Then she ceased,
And prayed no more to man, nor yet to God;
And all her thousands set themselves to death
Within her walls, and starved to skeletons,
Or sickened in the darkness underground,
128
And ever overhead the heaven was brass,
And through the empty streets the sheets of fire
From house to house by daylight scorched and leapt,
While the continuous rocking roar was yet
O'ercrashed a moment as the roofs fell in.
And week by week the faces that remained
Grew greyer, ghastlier; and her soldiery
Dropped at their posts, and mangled limbs were strewn
On their own hearths, and, as the shells came through,
Her little children in their mother's arms
Were torn to pieces, and her babes were born
Between the boomings as their fathers died.
| Ballads of the North and Other Poems | |