University of Virginia Library

And trembling masses of the reeds
In the marshes of Saint Gond—
Like their holy eremite
Retreated waist-deep to these waters cold,
Thirsting for desolation here
That they might only hear
The frog's lone flute
Amidst their shivering maze,
Or cry of wild duck sheer
Down the still waterways,—
Hear now exchange of salvoes rolled
From Mont Aout to Toulon La Montagne,
Cannon from the scarped vineyard-crests
Of Congy's northern height
That look on the bleak plain.
And who would guess the embrace
Of conflict for man's soul?
The alder covert's trysting-place
Of wood-wren and of oriole
Still on the marshy bank's short grasses
Hoopoe or little bittern passes
To hunt food for their young.
In the brown reeds, reed-warblers great and small
Flit and yet flit.

But why
Makes he such scrutiny,
Attila's namesake, the young prince,
Knelt in the white and shallow pit
Beside the marshes and stunt pines?
Steadily gazing into the sky
He sees the harrier-hawk, to feed his mate
Fluttering below him in blue air,
Let the clutcht lizard fall.
Tumbling, six feet below in air,
Backward she catches it
And bears off to her tussock'd nest
In the reed-beds of Saint Gond.
The young prince smiles to see them play
So featly with a prey.
Nine armies lie behind him on the crest
Along that line of scarpèd heights
Of Congy and of La Chenaille;
From Verdun wall to Paris wall
Swooping wing-shadows of the eagle fall
Who drops to his mate to-day
The shrivell'd lizard France.
Not even the ruin'd castle Mondement,
Warden of all the marshes' realm,
Remembers that beyond
The rushes, in those waters of Saint Gond,
Beneath the she-hawk's tussock'd nest
Sleeps Attila's lost golden helm. . . .
Cloaking Man's long misdeeds
Hold they their gentle bitter colloquy
Remote, the ceaselessly
Trembling masses of the reeds.