University of Virginia Library

II

Marne's stately water,
That melancholy many-winding river,
Hath many a battle known
Since by her island of the beechen copses,
Boar-hunting palace of the Merovings
And full this month of autumn-glancing wings,
Pale Fredegonda drowned her lover's son—
But like this battle, none.
Marne, who beneath this chalky spur
From woods of Gault and forest of Traonne,
Herself doth milky tribute rivers drain,—
Marne, the far-wanderer,
Stretches not wide as this day's battle line.
Now from this bosky mountain spur
Beneath the ruined castle Mondement
Look down, look there,
Towards Champenoise La Fère,
Over moon-barren heaths, the vast chalk plain,
Bald moors of high Champagne
Scattered with spindling woods of birch and pine
By the straggled marsh-belt of Saint Gond,—
By Reuves and Broussy, Oyes and Bannes,
Little marsh-villages with scarce a name,
There hangs your lot and mine.
Nightlong the marshfire Death hangs flickering
Above the pale-lipp'd middle of the line,
Watching—from Verdun wall to Paris wall—
Whether we stand or fall,
Whether the European liberties
Pass into dust
Like a thing temporal
That dureth no long while
Or shall outlast us all.
These are the claims august,
And this the fate that shall be settled there.