Art,--'t is a glory, a delight;
I' the tempest it holds fire-flight;
It irradiates the deep blue sky.
Art, splendour infinite,
On the brow of the People doth sit,
As a star in God's heaven most high.
Art,--'t is a broad-flowered plain
Where Peace holds beloved reign;
'T is the passionate unison
Of music the city hath made
With the country, the man with the maid,
All sweet songs made perfect in one!
Art,--'t is Humanity's thought
Which shatters chains century-wrought!
Art,--t'is the conqureror sweet!
Unto Art, each world-river, each sea!
Slave-People, 't is Art makes free;
Free People, 't is Art makes great!
O Chivalrous France! without cease
Chant loudly thy hymn of peace, --
Chant, with eyes fixed on the sky!
Thy joyous voice and profound
Through the slumbering world doth resound.
O noble People, chant high!
True People, chant gladly the dawn!
At even raise song at morn !
After labour sweet singing should be.
Laugh for the century o'erthrown!
Sing love in a tender tone,
And loudlier chant liberty!
Chant Italy sacred and sweet;
Poor Poland, slain sons at her feet;
Naples, whose heart-blood outpours;
Hungary, the Russian's base vaunt!
O tyrants! the People doth chant
Even as the lion roars.
Since justice slumbers in the abysm,
Since the crime's crowned with despotism,
Since all most upright souls are smitten,
Since proudest souls are bowed for shame,
Since on the walls in lines of flame
My country's dark dishonour's written;
O grand Republic of our sires,
Pantheon filled with sacred fires,
In the free azure golden dome,
Temple with shades immortal thronged!
Since thus thy glory they have wronged,
With "Empire" staining Freedom's home;
Since in my country each soul born
Is base; since there are laughed to scorn
The true, the pure, the great, the brave,
The indignant eyes of history,
Honour, law, right, and liberty,
And those, alas! within the grave:
Solitude, exile ! I love them !
Sorrow, be thou my diadem !
Poverty love I, -- for 't is pride !
My rugged home winds beat upon;
And even that awful Statue wan
Aye seated silent by my side.
I love the woe that proves me strong;
That shadow of fate which all ye throng,
O ye to whom high hearts aye bow, --
Faith, Virtue veiled, stern Dignity,
And thou, proud Exile, Liberty,
And, nobler yet, Devotion, thou!
I love this islet lonely, bold, --
Jersey, whereover England's old
Free banner doth the storm-blast brave;
Yon darkling ocean's ebb and flow,
Its vessels, each a wandering plough,
Whose mystic furrow is the wave.
I love thy gull, with snowy wing
In pearls to the wind blithe scattering,
O ocean vast, thy sunny spray;
Who darts beneath hugh billows gaping,
Soon from those monstrous throats escaping
As a soul from sorrow flits away!
I love the rock, -- how solemn, stern !
Thence hearkening aye the plaint eterne
On the wild air around me shed,
Ever the sullen night outpours,
Of waves that sob on sombre shores,
Of mothers mourning children dead!
It snowed. A defeat was our conquest red !
For once the eagle was hanging its head.
Sad days! the Emporer turned slowly his back
On smoking Moscow, blent orange and black.
The water burst, avalanche-like, to reign
Over the endless blanched sheet of the plain.
Nor chief nor banner in order could keep,
The wolves of warfare were 'wildered like sheep.
The wings from centre could hardly be known
Through snow o'er horses and carts o'erthrown,
Where froze the wounded. In the bivouacs forlorn
Strange sights and gruesome met the breaking morn:
Mute were the bugles, while the men bestrode
Steeds turned to marble, unheeding the goad
The shells and bullets came down with the snow
As though the heavens hated these poor troops below.
Surprised at trembling, though it was with cold,
Who ne'er had trembled out of fear, the veterans bold
Marched stern; to grizzled moustache hoar-frost clung
'Neath banners that in leaden masses hung.
It snowed, -- went snowing still. And chill the breeze
Whistled upon the glassy, endless seas,
Where naked feet on, on forever went,
With naught to eat, and not a sheltering tent.
They were not living troops as seen in war,
But merely phantoms of a dream, afar
In darkness wandering, amid the vapour dim, --
A mystery; of shadows a procession grim,
Nearing a blackening sky, unto its rim.
Frightful, since boundless, solitude behold
Where only Nemesis wove, mute and cold,
A net all snowy with its soft meshes dense,
A shroud of magnitued for host immense;
Till every one felt as if left alone
In a wide wilderness where no light shone,
To die, with pity none, and none to see
That from this mournful realm none should get free.
Their foes the frozen North and Czar,--that, worst.
Cannon were broken up in haste accurst
To burn the frames and make the pale fire high,
Where those lay down who never woke, or woke to die.
Sad and commingled, groups that blindly fled
Were swallowed smoothly by the desert dread.
'Neath folds of blankness, monuments were raised.
O'er regiments; and History, amazed,
Could not record the ruin of this retreat, --
Unlike a downfall known before, or the defeat
Of Hannibal, reversed and wrapped in gloom,
Of Atilla, when nations met their doom!
Perished an army,--fled French glory then,
Though there the Emperor! He stood and gazed
At the wild havoc, like a monarch dazed
In woodland hoar, who felt the shrieking saw:
He, living oak, beheld his branches fall, with awe.
Chiefs, soldiers, comrades died. But still warm love
Kept those that rose all dastard fear above,
As on his tent they saw his shadow pass,
Backwards and forwards; for they credited, alas!
His fortune's star! It could not, could not be
That he had not his work to do -- a destiny?
To hurl him headlong from his high estate,
Would be high treason in his bondman, Fate.
But all the while he felt himself alone,
Stunned with disasters few have ever known.
Sudden, a fear came o'er his troubled soul,--
What more was written on the Future's scroll?
Was this an expiation? It must be, yea!
He turned to God for one enlightening ray.
"Is this the vengeance, Lord of Hosts?" he sighed;
But the first murmur on his parched lips died.
"Is this the vengeance? Must my glory set?"
A pause: his name was called; of flame a jet
Sprang in the darkness; a Voice answered: "No!
Not yet."
Outside still fell the smothering snow.
Was it a voice indeed, or but a dream?
It was the vulture's, but how like the sea-bird's scream.
Thou who loved Juvenal, and filed
His style so sharp to scar imperial brows,
And lent the lustre lightening
The gloom in Dante's murky verse that flows,--
Muse Indignation! haste and help
My building up before this roseate realm
And its fruitless victories,
Whence transient shame Right's prophets overwhelm,
So many pillories deserved,
That eyes to come will pry without avail
Upon the wood impenetrant,
And glean no glitter of its tarnished tale.
Let us pray! Lo, the shadow serene!
God, towards thee our arms are upraised and our eyes.
They who proffer thee here their tears and their chain
Are the most sorrowful thy sorrow tries.
Most honour have they, being possessed of most pain.
Let us suffer! The crim will take flight.
Birds passing our cottages;
Winds passing,--on weary knees
Mothers, sisters, weep there day and night!
Winds, tell them our miseries!
Birds, bear our heart's love to their sight!
Our thought is uplifted to thee,
God! The proscribed we beseech thee forget,
But give back her old glory to France, whom we see
Shame-smitten; ay! slay us, -- us sorrow-beset;
Hot day but consigns to chill night's agony!
Let us suffer! The crim will take flight.
Birds passing our cottages;
Winds passing,--on weary knees
Mothers, sisters, weep there day and night!
Winds, tell them our miseries!
Birds, bear our heart's love to their sight!
As a bowman striketh a mark,
The fierce sun smites us with shafts of fire;
After dire day-labour, no sleep in night dark;
The bat that takes wing from the marish-mire--
Fever--flaps noiseless our brows and leaves stark.
Let us suffer! The crim will take flight.
Birds passing our cottages;
Winds passing,--on weary knees
Mothers, sisters, weep there day and night!
Winds, tell them our miseries!
Birds, bear our heart's love to their sight!
Athirst! The scant water-drop burns!
An-hungered,--black bread! Work, work, ye accurst!
At each stroke of the pick wild laughter returns
Loud echoed; lo! from the soil Death hath burst,
Round a man folds arms, and to sleep anew turns.
Let us suffer! The crim will take flight.
Birds passing our cottages;
Winds passing,--on weary knees
Mothers, sisters, weep there day and night!
Winds, tell them our miseries!
Birds, bear our heart's love to their sight!
What matters it! Nothing can tame
Us; we are tortured, and we are content.
And we thank high God, towards whom like flame
Our hymn burneth, that unto us suffering is sent,
When all they that endure not suffering bear shame.
Let us suffer! The crim will take flight.
Birds passing our cottages;
Winds passing,--on weary knees
Mothers, sisters, weep there day and night!
Winds, tell them our miseries!
Birds, bear our heart's love to their sight!
Live the Republic world-great!
Peace to the vast mysterious even!
Peace to the dead sweet slumber doth sate!
To wan ocean peace, that blends beneath heaven
Africa's sob with Cayenne's wail of hate!
Let us suffer! The crim will take flight.
Birds passing our cottages;
Winds passing,--on weary knees
Mothers, sisters, weep there day and night!
Winds, tell them our miseries!
Birds, bear our heart's love to their sight!
How well I knew this stealthy wolf would howl
When in the eagle talons ta'en in air!
A-glow, I snatched thee from thy prey, fowl!
I held thee, abject conqueror, just where
All see the stigma of a fitting name
As deeply red as deeply black's thy shame!
And though thy matchless impudence may frame
Some mask of seeming courage, spite thy sneear
(And thou assurest sloth and skunk, "It does not hurt!")
Thou feel'st it burning, in and in; and Fear
Says, "None forget it till shall hide congenial dirt!"
Sound, sound forever, clarions of thought!
When Joshua 'gainst the high-walled city fought,
He marched around it with his banner high,
His troops in serried order following nigh,
But not a sword was drawn, no shaft outsprang;
Only the trumpets the shrill onset rang.
At the first blast, smiled scornfully the king,
And at the second sneered, half-wondering:
"Hop'st thou with noise my stronghold to break down?"
At the third round the ark of old renown
Swept forward, still the trumpets sounding loud,
And then the troops with ensigns waving proud.
Stepped out upon the old walls children dark,
With horns to mock the notes and hoot the ark.
At the fourth turn, braving the Israelites,
Women appeared upon the crenelated heights--
Those battlements embrowned with age and rust--
And hurled upon the Hebrews stones and dust,
And spun and sang when weary of the game.
At the fifth circuit came the blind and lame,
And with wild uproar clamorous and high
Railed at the clarion ringing to the sky.
At the sixth time, upon a tower's tall crest,
So high that there the eagle built his nest,
So hard that on it lightning lit in vain,
Appeared in merriment the king again:
"These Hebrew Jews musicians are, me-seems!"
He scoffed, loud laughing, "but they live on dreams."
The princes laughed submissive to the king,
Laughed all the courtiers in their glittering ring,
And thence the laughter spread through all the town.
At the seventh blast the city walls fell down.
Who smiles there? Is it
A stray spirit,
Or woman fair?
Sombre yet soft the brow!
Bow, nations, bow;
O soul in air,
Speak! what art thou?
In grief the fair face seems.
What means those sudden gleams?
Our antique pride from dreams
Starts up, and beams
Its conquering glance,
To make our sad hearts dance,
And wake in woods hushed long
The wild bird's song.
Angel of Day!
Our hope, love, stay,
Thy countenance
Lights land and sea
Eternally:
Thy name is France,
Or Verity.
Fair angel, in thy glass
When vile things move or pass,
Clouds in the skies amass;
Terrible, alas!
They stern commands are then:
"Form your battalions, men;
The flag display!"
And all obey.
Angel of Might
Sent kings to smite,
The words in dark skies glance,
"Mene, Mene," hiss
Bolts that never miss!
Thy name is France,
Or Nemesis.
As halcyons in May,
O nations! in his ray
Float and bask for aye,
Nor know decay.
One arm upraised to heaven
Seals the past forgiven;
One holds a sword
To quell hell's horde.
Angel of God,
The wings stretch broad
As heaven's expanse,
To shield and free
Humanity!
Thy name is France,
Or Liberty!
Foul times there are when nations spiritless
Throw honour away
For tinsel glory, to base happiness
A mournful prey.
Then from the nations, fain of lustful rest,
Dull slavery's dreams,
All virtue ebbs, as from a sponge tight-prest
Clear water streams.
Then men, to vice and folly docile slaves,
Aye lowly inclined,
Ape the vile, fearful reed that stoops and waves
For every wind.
Then feasts and kisses; naught that saith the soul
Stirs shame or dread;
One drinks, one eats, one sings, one skips, -- is foul
And comforted.
Crime, ministered to by loathsome lackeys, reigns;
Yea, 'neath God's fires
Laughs; and ye shiver, sombre dread remains
Of glorious sires.
All life seems foul, with vice intoxicate,
Aye, thus to be. --
Sudden a clarion unto all winds elate
Peals liberty!
And the dull world whose soul this blast doth smite,
Is like to one
Drunken all night, up-staggering 'neath the light
O' the risen sun!
We walked amongst the ruins famed in story
Of Rozel-Tower,
And saw the boundless waters stretch in glory
And heave in power.
O Ocean vast! We heard thy song with wonder,
Whilst waves marked time.
"Appear, O Truth!" thou sang'st with tone of thunder,
"And shine sublime!
"The world's enslaved and hunted down by beagles,
To despots sold.
Souls of deep thinkers, soar like mighty eagles!
The Right uphold.
"Be born! arise! o'er the earth and wild waves bounding,
Peoples and suns!
Let darkness vanish; tocsins be resounding,
And flash, ye guns!
"And you who love no pomps of fog or glamour,
Who fear no shocks,
Brave foam and lightning, hurricane and clamour, --
Exiles: the rocks!"
The deepest infamy man can attain,
Is to strangle Rome, or France enchain;
Whate'er the place, the land, the city be,
'T is to rob man of soul and liberty;
'T is with drawn sword the senate to invade,
And murder law in its own court betrayed.
To enslave the land is guilt of such black dye,
It is ne'er quitted by God's vengeful eye;
The crime once done, they day of grace expires,
Heaven's punishment, which, howe'er slow, ne'er tires,
Begins to march, and comes serene and calm,
With her steel knotted whip beneath her arm.
Dear land, farewell!
Waves surge and swell.
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!
Farewell, white cot whence the ripe grapes fall,
Gold blooms that bask on the mossy wall!
Dear land, farewell!
Hill, plain, and dell!
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!
Dear land, farewell!
Waves surge and swell.
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!
Farewell, betrothed, with the pure, pale brow;
'Neath sombre heaven dark billows we plough.
Dear land, farewell!
In thee our loves dwell;
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!
Dear land, farewell!
Waves surge and swell.
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!
Our eyes, whose tears all brightness blot,
Leave the dark wave for a darker lot!
Dear land, farewell!
In our heart's a knell.
Dear land, farewell, --
Blue sky!
The Imperial Mantle
[This poem alludes to the use of the bee as a badge by Napoleon III]
O ye whose labour is bliss alway,
Blithe-winged ones who have for prey
But odorous breaths of azure skies,
Who, ere December come, far flee,
Sweet thieves of sweetest blooms! O ye
Who bear to men the honey prize,
Chaste sippers of the morning dew,
Who visit 'neath noon's amorous blue
The lily glowing like a star,
Fond sisters of May's flowrest bright,
Bees, blithesome daughters of the light,
From that foul mantle flit afar!
Winged warriors, rush upon that man!
O busy toilers, noble clan,
For duty and virtue arduous,
With golden wings, keen darts of flame,
Swarm round that dull foul thing of shame,
And hiss, "For what has taken us?"
"Accurst! We are the honey bees!
Our hives the pride of cottages,
From homeliest flowers our sweetest sips!
Though oft, what time warm June discloses
For love of us his loveliest roses,
We're fain to alight on Plato's lips!
"What's born of mire, to mire's inclined.
Go! in his lair Tiberius find,
Charles Nine his balcony upon.
Go, go! Hymettus' bees scarce grace
Your purple; there behooves you place
The black foul swarm of Montfaucon!"
And all together sting him there.
O tiny warriors of the air!
Sting blind this traitor soulless, base;
Upon him swarm from far and near,
And, since the men of France have fear,
Let bees of France, the monster chase!
"O paths whereon wild grasses wave,
O valleys, hillsides, forests hoar!
Why are ye silent as the grave?"
"For one who came, and comes no more!"
"Why is thy window closed of late?
And why thy garden in its sere?
O house! where doth thy master wait?"
"I only know he is not here."
"Good dog, thou watchest; yet no hand
Will feed thee. In the house is none.
Whom weepest thou, child?" "My father." "And,
O wife! whom weepest thou?" "The Gone."
"Where is he gone?" "Into the dark."
"O sad and ever-plaining surge!
Whence art thou?" "From the convict-bark."
"And why thy mournful voice?" "A dirge."
Cheer, courtiers! round the splendid spread,--
The board that groans with shame and plate;
Still fawning to the sham-crowned head
That hopes its brass will turn its fate!
Drink till the comer last is full,
And never hear in revels' lull,
Grim Vengeance forging arrows fleet,
Whilst I gnaw at the crust
Of Exile in the dust --
But honour makes it sweet!
Ye cheaters in the trickster's fame,
Who dupe yourself and trickster-chief,
In blazing cafes spend the gain,
But draw the blind lest at his thief
Some fresh-made beggar gives a glance
And interrupts with steel the dance!
But let him toilsomely tramp by,
As I myself afar
Follow no gilded car
In ways of honesty.
Ye troopers who shot mothers down,
And marshals whose brave cannonade
Broke infant arms and split the stone
Where slumbered age and guileless maid, --
Though blood is the cup you fill,
Pretend it "rosy" wine, and still
Hail cannon "king," and steel the "queen!"
But I prefer to sup
From Philip Sidney's cup,--
True soldier's draught serene.
O workmen, seen by me sublime,
When wrenched ye from the tyrant, peace!
Can you be dazed by tinselled crime,
And find no foe beneath the fleece?
Build places where fortunes feast,
And on your backs bear loads of beast,
Though once such masters you made flee!
But then, like me, you ate
Food of an endless fete,--
The bread of Liberty!
He shines through history like a sun.
For thrice five years
He bore bright victory through the dun
King-shadowed spheres;
Proud Europe 'neath his law of might
Low-bowed the knee.
Thou, poor ape, hobble after aright,
Petit, petit!
Napoleon in the roar of fight,
Calm and serene,
Guided athwart the fiery flight
His eagle keen.
Upon Arcola bridge he trod,
And came forth free.
Come! here is gold; adore thy god,
Petit, petit!
Viennas were his lights-o-love,
He ravished them;
Blithely he seized brave heights above
By the iron hem;
Castles caught he by the curls,
His brides to be:
For thee here are the poor, pale girls.
Petit, petit!
He passed o'er mountains, deserts, plains,
Having in hand
The palm, the lightening, and the reins
Of every land;
Drunken, he tottered on the brink
Of deity.
Here is sweet blood! quick, run to the drink,
Petit, petit!
Then, when he fell, loosening the world,
The abysmal sea
Made wide here depths for him, down-hurled
By Liberty;
Th' archangel plunged from where he stood,
And earth breathed free.
Thou! drown thyself in thy own mud,
Petit, petit!
Of what does this poor exile dream?
His garden plot, his dewy mead,
Perchance his tools, perchance his team, --
But ever of murdered France indeed;
Her memory makes his sad heart bleed.
While those that slew her clutch their pay,
The exile pleads with bitter cry:
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain -- how fain! -- to die.
The workman sees his workshop still,
And the poor peasant his loved cot;
Sweet homely flowers on the window-sill,
Or the bright hearth (when flowers bloom not)
Smiling on all things unforgot, --
E'en flickering on that nook whence aye
His grandmam's bed erst met his eye.
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain -- how fain! -- to die.
In springtime swarm the honey bees;
Pert sparrows, quick heaven's gifts to share.
Blithe 'mong the barley crop one sees;
Sad little rogues, sans though, or care
They rob, as though they eagles were.
An old-world chateau, ivied, grey,
Crumbles the snug farmstead anigh.
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain -- how fain! -- to die.
With file and mallet one can live
And keep one's wife and youngster's bright;
One works from faintest dawn till eve,
And in the toil finds true delight.
O sacred labour! life and light!
Our fathers toiled till, wearied, they
Resigned the tools with a smile or sigh.
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain -- how fain! -- to die.
On holidays, the artisan,
His tools and cares all cheerily stowing,
Singing brave songs which bless or ban,
Cap jaunty on brow, blouse loosely flowing,
Forth to some festal haunt is going.
One eats a rabbit (so they say!)
And quaffs sour wine of Hungary.
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain -- how fain! -- to die.
On Sundays aye the peasant strong
Sings out for Jeanne or Jacqueline:
"Now sweetheart, quickly come along, --
I warrant me, with ribbons fine, --
To dance on the hill till stars bright shine."
The sabot hath a tricksy way
Of making music in July.
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain -- how fain! -- to die.
Mournfully aye the exiles muse,
With spirit, -- alas! nigh broken down.
Still they regard the darkling yews
That on green peaceful graves still frown.
One dreams of Germany, and one
Of poor bruised Poland, hapless prey,
And one of beauteous Italy.
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain -- how fain! -- to die.
An exile, tired of hopeless pain,
Lay dying; calm, scarce sad, looked he.
"Why die?" I gently asked him then.
He answered, "Is life sweet to thee?"
Then smiled, "I shall at length be free!
Farewell, I die. O France, for aye
Thee shall the tyrant crucify?"
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain -- how fain! -- to die.
"I die because I see no longer
The fields, erewhile the world to me.
I die, because I hear no longer
The birds, my whole world's melody.
My soul is where I cannot be.
'Twixt four rough planks my body lay,
And bury me, --- I care not, I!"
One cannot live with bread away;
Afar from home, one's fain -- how fain! -- to die.
O Sun! bright face aye undefiled;
O flowers i' the valley blooming wild;
Caverns, dim haunt of Solitude;
Perfume whereby one's step's beguiled
Deep, deep into the sombre wood;
O Sacred mounts that heavenward climb,
White as a temple-front, sublime;
Old oaks that centuries' might inherit
(Somewhat whereof I feel, what time
'Neath you I stand, endues my spirit);
O virgin forest, crystal spring,
Lake where no storm for long can fling
Darkness, clear heaven-reflecting face,--
Pure soul of Nature unslumbering,
What think you of this bandit base?
Mother birdie stiff and cold,
Puss has hushed the other's singing;
Winds go whistling o'er the wold,
Empty nest in sport a-flinging:
Poor little birdies!
Faithless shepherd strayed afar,
Playful dog the gadflies catching;
Wolves bound boldly o'er the bar,
Not a friend the fold is watching:
Poor little lambkins!
Father into prison fell,
Mother begging through the parish;
Baby's cot they too will sell:
Who will now feed, clothe, and cherish?
Poor little children!