 | The War of Ideas |  |
5
THE WAR OF IDEAS.
I
The Darkness deepens as the DayTo noon and eventide advances,
And, for the cheerful solar ray,
The lightning from the vapour glances,
And o'er and round the Vatican,
Thunder alarms the ear of man.
And mid the gloom, and by the glare
Of torchlight, in his priestly chair
Enthroned, the Pontiff aims to read
The doctrine by the Church decreed,
Which to a feeble mortal lends
The power all earthly power transcends,
And him, in spirit set on high,
Vests with Infallibility.
As now his eye at random wanders,
The while the fatal scroll he ponders,
Thinks he of Sinai, when the Law
Smote Israel's soul with sacred awe?
Methinks, but little suits the hour
The angry voice of outraged power.
To him far more auspicious were
The peaceful heavens smiling clear.
6
Is tumult in the murky air,
And, on the troubled earth, the blare
Of the war-trumpet sounds, beware!
II
Son of the Church, her eldest Son,Imperial France! what is it moves thee,
That thou, the paths of peace foregone,
Shouldst wake the echo that reproves thee?
What is't to thee that Spain should reach
Her hand, and raise her voice in speech,
The while with both she gravely pleads
To Prussia for the help she needs—
A prince more meet to fill her throne
Than any offspring of her own?
A prince in heart and spirit free,
The cream and flower of chivalry,
Who should the people's heart redeem
From superstition's fatal dream,
That ravened on it like a vulture,
The victim of an impious culture?
Wouldst thou not fain thyself dispense
From that malignant influënce?
Ay, doubtless; thou wouldst break the bands
That fetter souls in sister lands,
But wouldst not other power than thine
Should undertake the work divine.
O, jealous, thou wouldst strike the blow,
If now Heaven's great design it be
To crown the arch with liberty
For other nations, and for thee.
7
III
Instruct my spirit as of old,Immortal Angel of the Ages!
That in the body I behold
The revelation to the sages
Who have put off the flesh, and know
Behind the Veil the secret show.
There Thyatira's guardian thou
Bespeakest with an earnest brow.
“Thy deeds, thy love, thy service, all
On me for commendation call—
Thy patience, faith, thy latter works;
Yet one thing my sad bosom irks,
Thou sufferest Jezebel to reign,
And utter oracles most vain;
Calling thy sons from Wisdom's bridals,
To render sacrifice to idols.
Space to repent to her I gave,
But she would not. Nought her shall save.
Her children meet the pestilence,
That now impends for her offence.
I search the inward thoughts, and those
The outward action which dispose,
8
The accursèd thing the faithful hate,
No further burthens them await:
And thou my words deliberate.”
IV
O, Rome! thou City of the Dead!Of memories that daily perish;
Of shrines from which the Saints have fled,
And monuments none longer cherish,
Save abject souls that ne'er have known
A living impulse of their own,
But from their cradles to their graves
Crawl on, contented to be slaves,
To eat the ashes of the past,
And slumber in the dust at last.
And thou, its Father, triple-crowned,
Whose safety has in France been found,
But hast misused the respite term
Thyself in error to confirm;
Her ægis from thy head averted,
Forlorn, abandoned, and deserted,
Turn to thy God, and to the Land
Thou hast oppressed, for help at hand;
And if with them agreement none
By supplication may be won,
Then cease to hope, and make thy chair
The throne of a sublime despair.
The Spirit's word shall aye be heard,
And Truth, as by the Teuton taught,
Become with all the Law of Thought,
And Latin dogma grind to nought.
9
V
And lo, where France now turns aside,In arms arrayed, athirst for glory,
Abating nothing of her pride,
To the far Rhine's large territory.
There by the Saar the heights she gains,
And, looking down into the plains,
The peaceful citizen can see,
His wife, and children on his knee,
Sit by the open lattice, yet
Feel no remorse, no small regret,
That on the morrow they be doomed
To exile drear, their home consumed
By shot and shell, and far supply
Of murderous artillery,
That, pitiless for devastation,
Dooms legions to annihilation.
Now wait the troops the presence there
Of him, their chief, whose hest severe
Shall let the carnage loose that now
Thirsts for the blood of man, I trow;
Commissioned by supreme decree
To aid thy cause, O Liberty!
Thy cause, O Peace! War sure must cease,
When men but meet on battle-field,
Not or to conquer or to yield,
But slaughter total, unrepealed.
VI
Therefore, Napoleon, man of sin,Whate'er thy purpose, though thou bringest
10
And peril of the strife, and flingest
His young life upon danger's path,
That he may learn to brave its wrath,
And nerve his courage so to dare
The utmost terrors of grim war:
What, though he show thy discipline,
The lip unblanched, the brow serene,
And from the ground the bullet raise
With a proud calm even veterans praise,
Or coolly ply the mitrailleuse,
Regardless of its deadly use?
I thank thee, though, in this rough manner,
The truth be blazoned on thy banner,
I thank thee, that to this extreme
Thou leadest on thy demon dream,
To teach mankind that slaughterous strife
Can aid no cause that breathes of life;
That Mors alone serves cruel Mars,
And make this war the last-of wars.
Thus God doth show his radiant bow,
Even in the thunder-cloud that frets
The souls of righteous men, and sets
His promise where His judgment threats.
VII
Observe the contrast. In arrayThy foe's battalions take their places:
Warriors, but not mere soldiers they;
Brave men, whose hearts yet bear the traces
Of civil life, whose eyes shed tears
For what affinity endears.
11
But fated yet to win a name,
A bridegroom parted from his bride,
Just ere their nuptial knot was tied.
The bivouac-field now enters she,
And from the ranks outsteppeth he.
Now they embrace, and now they plead
For leave the bridal may proceed,
Which suddenly, beyond the border,
Had been delayed by martial order.
'Tis granted; on that armèd field,
To natural impulse taught to yield,
The German mind sees nothing strange
In such affectionate interchange.
Thus August and Angelica
Were wedded ere began the fray.
And no surprise was in the eyes
Of those who watched the simple rite,
So full of love, so full of light,
So tender, yet so strong in might.
VIII
Upon the hills of SpeicherenArtillery is strongly planted;
The Prussian columns yet again
Assail the foe with zeal undaunted.
The cannonading far resounds,
And all is clamour, blows, and wounds;
12
With thunder-peals prolonged and loud,
Now hushed awhile; the invaders deem
The danger over: idle dream,
No time is this for empty boasts;
So from the woods the patriot hosts
Emerge, and with the bayonet force
Against all odds their upward course.
What care they for superior numbers?
The God of Battles never slumbers.
He for the cause they have in hand—
The inviolate soil of Fatherland—
Is mindful, aye, and will protect,
Her children in the brave respect
That blood as water freely sheds,
For ground whereon the free man treads.
Fierce is the fight; and wild the flight
Of Frossard and his merry men,
Who on the hills of Speicheren
Held their position safe till then.
IX
Opposed to patriot souls like these,By nature's vigour still supported,
In vain the silken sons of ease
Have Glory's idle pageants courted.
At Weissenburg securely rest
The flower of armies, Gallia's best.
Soon from Bavarian forests near,
On Schwergen's heights the hosts appear
The crash of the artillery
Resounds from earth to upper sky.
13
The thunderbolts of flame pour down;
The houses blaze, the soldiers fall,
And sudden ruin covers all.
A while they hesitate, retiring;
Anon, defiant of the firing,
Bravely the Turcos in defence,
Mid horrid smoke and vapour dense,
Themselves upon the batteries throw,
And perish, to disarm the foe.
Nor they alone: in that dire strife
General Douay must yield his life.
No more dare they resist the sway
Of strength and numbers; but, despite
Their zeal to slay, speed left and right,
Roads, vineyards, crossing in their flight.
X
The shallow Bruder floweth on,Anear the road where trees are growing,
That shade the carted needle-gun,
And spikèd helmets warlike-shewing.
O Woerth! in thy fertile vale
What memories make the cheek to pale,
When giants wrestled in the fight,
And either proved the other's might.
'Twere hard to say who first began
The conflict; man opposed to man,
Sudden each found himself engaged,
And on his foeman turned enraged,
Fierce, wild, in mutual wrath intent
To thrust aside impediment.
14
No less the horror when retreating.
The Franks, before the steady fire
Of the brave Pruss, compelled, retire.
And now the cavalry move on
The broken ranks of MacMahon.
Pursuit and flight and rout succeed;
And, in the woods and on the mead,
Lie horses dead, with baggage spread,
And scattered arms, and armèd men
That sleep as in a shady glen,
Till the trump waken all again.
XI
The victors in that bloody strifeOf victory not yet aweary,
Loving their country more than life,
And valiant as the mountain eerie,
Pursue the flying to Saverne;
Nor there repose, in silence stern
Waiting occasion, but urge on
Their course till Metz itself be won.
Before the fortress, rank by rank,
Behold the army of the Frank;
Them rumours of the Pruss appal,
And, like the handwriting on the wall,
The pensive read in every face
The troubled advent of disgrace.
France has grown old, a senile nation
Is powerless for its own salvation;
While Prussia, young and trained to thought,
Has for herself a future wrought;
15
She hails the ages from afar,
Forecasts the battle day by day,
And shapes like Fate her forward way;
Leaves nought to chance in her advance,
Secures each fortress, mans each town,
And makes each step of road her own—
The road to Paris and renown.
XII
What sees the scout this Sabbath eve?The encampèd French shew backward motion.
The ground of battle would they leave?
They're ebbing like the tide of ocean.
Up! and at once attack the rear;
They bide the dreadful onset there;—
The fortress aids them; reinforced,
The heroic Germans dare the worst.
Each fights with zeal and strength by turns;
Along the line the combat burns.
The cannon play upon the French,
They reck not, neither flinch nor blench,
But bear the wounded as they fall
Into the town that shelters all.
Night on the doubtful strife descending,
The Gaul retires—the battle ending.
The Pruss, their wounded safe bestowed,
Their bivouacs reached ere morning glowed;
And, as the day advanced, the King,
The field of slaughter visiting,
Between the rival outposts went,
Not dreading aught malevolent.
16
But clouds of dust, west the Moselle,
Anon begin to rise and swell,
And soon of his retreating tell.
XIII
At Chalons, the Imperial camp,With works advanced and cunning fetches,
Guarding the roads that foe might tramp,
A fortifièd plain outstretches.
The Army of the Rhine retrace
Their hasty steps; but, face to face,
Meet their old foes. Again they strive,
And variously their fortunes thrive,
From dawn to dusk. With morn to friend,
The combat may have happy end.
The morrow yet has less of hope,
Bazaine much less with which to cope
The buckler of that destiny
Which shields the growing enemy.
Toward Chalons now the Prince is faring:
There a new army, fresh and daring,
A waits his coming, it is said—
—A ruined camp he finds instead,
Deserted all, consumèd so,
No shelter meant to yield. The foe
Hath northward wended, bound for Rheims;
To arrest his westward march, it seems.
O plan unsafe! But wherefore chafe
That they who shun our arms to meet
Should, in the baseness of retreat,
Shew folly, offspring of defeat?
17
XIV
His onward march the Prince sustains,Reaches the point where all so lately
Gaul's second army on these plains
Hath waited for him, hoping greatly.
Where is that army, MaeMahon?
To Rheims has it for refuge gone?
The huts that here for years had stood
In the triangle that made good
'Twixt Chalons, Rheims, and Suippes its shape,
Were doomed to flame—none might escape;
All shew the waste by warfare made,
Whate'er the scene by man surveyed—
Alas, deserted villages!
Alas, ye homeless families!
Those rounding Metz; these seek for station
The frontier of the neutral nation.
Nor waste alone, but mutinies
That grow on war's necessities.
The pillaged trains our wrath awake,
Men of all arms the guilt partake.
Shall these to victory succeed?
Pity the brave reduced to need—
These sunken men will rise agen,
And bravely combat, though in vain!
What further news? To aid Bazaine,
Rheims and MacMahon now are twain.
XV
Where bides he then? They say Sedan,A fortress on the Meuse, defends him;
18
Have rested well: thus Fate befriends him.
For some great battle he prepares,
And combat with the King he dares.
What desperate mood chose such a spot,
Where hope is none, escape is not?
Behind him are defiles which soon
His foes will hold; of roads but one
By which he may effect retreat:
Inevitable his defeat.
The Prussians enter Carignan,
The Emperor leaving for Sedan—
Near Beaumont, too, the French are routed;
MacMahon's peril is undoubted!
Sad indecision! sad delay!
What! would he now fight back his way
To Paris? or to Belgium yield
The arms intended for the field;
Or to the enemy resign,
That meets him on the advancing line?
Fast as they can upon Sedan
His troops retreat, not unpursued
By the victorious multitude,
That grow as did the Dragon brood!
XVI
Still more delay. Thy genius droops,O France! before the Teuton's daring,
Thy Eagle to his Double stoops;
Yet wherefore shouldst thou die despairing?
Thou strugglest still to break the net
That holds thy feet enmeshèd yet,
19
The very air are tempesting.
But Fate at valour mocks; and he,
The playfellow of Destiny,
Now owns perforce the awful sway
Which even gods, 'tis said, obey.
Hill, fortress, forest round them spread,
The frowning heavens are overhead.
From early morn till late at even
The rival armies now have striven;
And, lo! the morrow, unafraid,
Wakes with the heavy cannonade,
And the advancing German, see,
March for the stream, and victory.
Him on the bridge the Gaul awaits—
What cause such carnage consecrates?
The mitrailleuse surmounts the Meuse,
Where patriot zeal makes fear a crime,
And heroism but more sublime,
A brave example for all time.
XVII
Napoleon! in thy desperate need,Think on the violent beginning
Of the proud empire thou wouldst lead
To higher aims and further sinning.
The sabre's law that had thy pledge
Now turns on thee its double edge,
And violence concludes the sway
That owed to force its little day;
That sword assumed by thee in war
Thou yieldest to a conqueror.
20
The power a nation held till now,
A nation proudly Catholic,
To one by it deemed heretic.
Rome falls with thee, and that she dreaded,
Submission, with her name is wedded.
Her haughty pontiff, at the height,
Parts from the substance of his might,
And Italy assumes the throne
Whereon he long hath sat alone;
And nations wonder, looking on
The sudden fall of Babylon.
Aloft, afar, the rising star
Of Protestant ascendancy,
Now, in the open of the sky,
Shines broadly, brightly, regnantly.
XVIII
And now again the Veil's withdrawn,And Thyatira's guardian angel
A wakens, with the earliest dawn,
To trumpet forth the New Evangel.
“To him who overcometh, I
Grant power, and might, and majesty.
Over the nations rule shall he
With rod of iron;—they shall be
To shivers broken—such the power
The Father on the Man and Hour
Bestows, who share the Morning Star,
Which now in heaven shines wide and far,
And by whose light all peoples may
Bask cheerful in the growing day.”
21
That pities man's confessed demerit,
And shews to my observant eye
The eternal Law of Tendency,
Which all events obey. Lo! kings
And emperors are its underlings,
Who, with far other motives, ply
Their inroads upon liberty.
Not what they meant, but God's intent,
The final cause their deed that rules,
When most they seem to act as fools,
Whom no experience ever schools.
XIX
O mystery, that still with meMy soul so heavily oppresses,
That in thy name, O Liberty!
Man all so cruelly transgresses;
That every step to future peace
War still must win, till war shall cease.
O speed the time when this shall be,
When sin's remission shall be free
From blood, that now in rivers flows,
Where Carnage mocks at human woes.
O God of Battles! terrible,
The Sword should be thy Oracle,
And its arbitrement decide
The course of progress, guard and guide.
Both in the New World and the Olden,
With president, king, czar, or soldan,
The soldier closes spoken strife,
And sanctions reason, life for life.
22
Opinion, truth, or rule enjoyed,
Nor Christian faith promulged, unless
Baptized in blood of earnestness.
Why should the Few who would renew
The race in goodness, suffer still
From the profane, and idle will
Of ignorance, intent on ill?
XX
O France! the country of my sires,Driven from thy soil by persecution;
Yet slumber in thy breast the fires
Of zeal and bigot resolution?
O sacred Soil, now violate,
O Power, now fallen from high estate,
Supremacy, that hath passed o'er
Unto thy foe, for evermore!
Thou, for the future provident,
With equal rights be now content,
And seek thy better privilege
In moderate counsels, and the pledge
Of kindred feeling, aiming each
At freer thought and freer speech.
O France, surviving perturbations,
Live thus at ease among the nations,
And thou shalt be esteemed as fair
In beauty, and in wit as rare,
As thou wert wont of yore to be,
When all the world else flattered thee.
By self-bought suffering purified
From vanity, conceit and pride,
23
A lady by the right of birth,
One of the favoured lands of earth,
Renowned for wisdom, wealth and worth.
XXI
And thou, O Paris!—beautifulAmong the cities—now surrounded
By terrors, like the shipwrecked hull
Which recent tempest hath confounded,—
With hosts beleaguered, thither sent
By that wise King armipotent
Out of the North, whose thoughtful sons
Teach Europe and themselves at once;—
City of Pleasure! grown sedate,
But yet not utter desolate,
Sustained by hope, and brave to dare,
Not yet subdued, nor taught despair,
Though all but conquered; from thy grief
Thou yet shalt rise to sure relief.
The sunset of thy mighty sorrow
Foretells a yet more glorious morrow.
Perhaps, from Rome's idolatry
And superstition thus set free,
Thou yet mayst wear a thoughtful brow,
Like Germany and England now,
And, in a faith more Protestant,
Supply thy soul's religious want.
Happy will be that day to thee,
And to the peoples who may learn
From thy example to discern
The Truth from Error, fair though stern.
24
XXII
Fair City of the South! thy moodIs gentler far, though more capricious;
A livelier current flows thy blood,
In effort virtuous, wise or vicious.
Admire we now thy attitude:
No longer turbulent and rude,
But calm, expectant of the worst,
Brave to the end as at the first.
What, though the shower of shot and shell
Be threatened, making earth a hell;
Though Metz be fallen, thou wilt still
Endure the extremity of ill,
Defiant till stern Fate declare
Submission needful,—not despair.
Let rain upon thy head devoted
The fiery deluge, hardly noted
But for the ruin which it makes,
Though with the shock the centre shakes.
The doom of Sodom on thee fall,
Consume, engulf, and bury all,
So thou again transfigured rise,
From the deep grave where nature dies,
And spirit's born, to a new morn
Of a calm day that never sets.
Thanks! Heaven the menaced judgment lets;
Forgives thy errors—nay, forgets.
XXIII
What! thou refusest Mercy's hand,Wilt not be spared, but proudly perish?
25
That bears some legend we would cherish?
Rather than so, thou offerest
Thyself a sacrifice confessed
To honour, caring through all ill,
More than all else, for Glory still.
O pride of soul! that half redeems
The sin it does, the guilt it dreams.
Now sound the thunder of the siege;
Its lightnings make a fiery bridge,
In air, a lurid iris, bend,
And red into the town descend.
In mercy, spare its gods domestic,
Its palaces and fanes majestic,
Its theatres, its galleries,
Where Art with living Nature vies.
Spurnest thou pity, O City of Lot?
Thou wert—thou hast been—thou art not?
Nay, Hope survives, though Famine kill;
Valour must yield, but Hope ne'er will!—
“Spare Earth the shame, in Heaven's name!”
Thus Hope still prays;—though Heaven decree
To purge the world, we bow the knee
In hope, as now we do for thee!
XXIV
Germania! now in union strong,Land of free Thought, and Wisdom's lover,
May peace live in thy homesteads long,
And Truth herself to thee discover.
The war thou hast in triumph closed
O thee great duties hath imposed;
26
And full of trial unto thee.
Creeds and opinions wait the hour
When each shall test the other's power;
But O! by all the blood now shed,
By the great memory of the dead,
Forbear to wield the braud or sword,
And strive but with the living word.
The weapon from the mouth proceeding
May well suffice such interpleading;
With reason's arms the quarrel try,
With spiritual panoply,
And drive from earth each prejudice
That leads to error, fraud and vice;
So mayst thou reign amidst the lands,
And speak to monarchs thy commands.
From end to end let earth attend
The Spirit's voice:—From out the tomb
The risen Saviour yet must come,
And glory shine on Christendom.
XXV
O grand Ideals, that still hauntThe souls of great men and great nations,
Nursing in each a mighty want
Increasing with the generations,
Till, grown too strong to be repressed,
It claims the cure of its unrest,
And snatches, with a sudden start,
Food for the hunger of the heart.
Church of the Future! not in thee
Or idol, king or priest shall be,
27
And all mankind one brotherhood.
But slowly on the dial moves
The index in its sacred grooves,
Till strike the Hour of old projected,
So much desired, so long expected.
Whatso is but provisional
Shall cease for aye; for all in all
The Father reigns, the unending One—
The All-beginning, Unbegun;
And with Him reign His Saints, on whom
The Spirit sheds immortal bloom.
Dreams of the day! fade not away
Like the vain visions of the night;
But evermore, for our delight,
Abide, and teach the True and Right.
Revelations ii. 18—29. Thyatira is the Fourth Church to whom the Apocalyptic Epistles are written; and, therefore, I suppose, as a prophetical symbol, intended to synchronise with the Fourth Seal, the Fourth Trumpet, and the Fourth Vial, and to represent the state of Christendom in the fourth cycle that dates from the beginning of the sixteenth century, and will last until the end of the twentieth. On this head, see notes to “Sebastopol” in my volume entitled “The In-Gathering,” just published.
This story was told by the correspondent of the Daily News, Aug. 5, 1870. The names of bridegroom and bride were Herr August Britz, born in Saarlouis, a thriving merchant, and Fraulein Angelica Hennig, born in Schleiz, in Central Germany.
END
| The War of Ideas | |