Trouble In The Louvre

    When the German troops were marching with the Uhlans far ahead,
    The objective point being Paris, as the Berlin wireless said,
    There was trouble in the Louvre, 'mong the paintings on the walls,
    There were shoutings 'cross the centuries, there were loud artistic calls;
    "Mona Lisa" ceased her smiling and "The Banker and His Wife"
    Turned to Millet's "Women Gleaning" - begged protection for their life;
    While "The Gypsy Girl" of Franz Hals, fearful of impending fate,
    Roused "The Shepherds in Arcadia" with "The Hun is at the Gate!"

    Then the panic spread on all sides till the battle of the Marne
    Solved all danger of the looting, removed all need to warn;
    Straight "The Lace Maker" from Flemish Bruges in the joyous choral led
    Smiled at "Charles First of England" who had lost his crown and head;
    For fear had left the Louvre when the Teutons turned in flight,
    So they scanned the sky no longer for dread Zeppelins in the night.
    And the paintings born of centuries touched by genius into life
    Still are hanging in the Louvre 'mid war's clash and clang and strife.

    For Edgar Guest.

Thomas O'Hagan

Thomas O'Hagan was a Canadian poet and essayist born on March 6, 1855, in Toronto, Ontario. He was noted for his contributions to Canadian literature and his involvement in educational initiatives. His works often reflected themes of Irish heritage and identity. O'Hagan's dedication to literature and education earned him a distinguished place in Canada's cultural history. He passed away on March 1, 1939.

Thomas O'Hagan

His Mission

Thomas O'Hagan, Simple Poetry

Sock It To 'Em

Thomas O'Hagan, Simple Poetry

In The Trenches

Thomas O'Hagan, Simple Poetry

Achilles' Tomb

Thomas O'Hagan, Simple Poetry

English

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Leipzig

(1813)
Scene: The Master-tradesmen's Parlour at the Old Ship Inn, Casterbridge. Evening.



"Old Norbert with the flat blue cap
A German said to be -
Why let your pipe die on your lap,
Your eyes blink absently?" -

- "Ah! . . . Well, I had thought till my cheek was wet
Of my mother her voice and mien
When she used to sing and pirouette,
And touse the tambourine

"To the march that yon street-fiddler plies:
She told me 'twas the same
She'd heard from the trumpets, when the Allies
Her city overcame.

"My father was one of the German Hussars,
My mother of Leipzig; but he,
Long quartered here, fetched her at close of the wars,
And a Wessex lad reared me.

"And as I grew up, again and again
She'd tell, after trillin...

Thomas Hardy

Fontenoy.

I.

Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed,
And twice the lines of Saint Antoine the Dutch in vain assailed;
For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery,
And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary.
As vainly, through De Barri's wood, the British soldiers burst,
The French artillery drove them back, diminished, and dispersed.
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try,
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide.


II.

Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread;
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head;
Steady they step a-do...

Thomas Osborne Davis

In The Trenches

    All day the guns belched fire and death
        And filled the hours with gloom;
    The fateful music smote the sky
        In tremulous bars of doom;
    But as the evening stars came forth
        A truce to death and strife,
    There rose from hearts of patriot love
        A tender song of life.

    A song of home and fireside
        Swelled on the evening air,
    And men forgot their battle line,
        Its carnage and dark care;
    The soldier dropp'd his rifle
        And joined the choral song,
    As high above the tide of war
        It swept and pulsed along.

    That night while sleeping where the stars
        Look down upon the Meuse,
    Where Teuton valor coped with Frank,
        Where rained most deadly de...

Thomas O'Hagan

The Surprise Of Cremona.

From Milan to Cremona Duke Villeroy rode,
And soft are the beds in his princely abode;
In billet and barrack the garrison sleep,
And loose is the watch which the sentinels keep:
'Tis the eve of St. David, and bitter the breeze
Of that mid-winter night on the flat Cremonese;
A fig for precaution!--Prince Eugene sits down
In winter cantonments round Mantua town!


II.

Yet through Ustiano, and out on the plain,
Horse, foot, and dragoons, are defiling amain.
"That flash!" said Prince Eugene: "Count Merci, push on"--
Like a rock from a precipice Merci is gone.
Proud mutters the Prince: "That is Cassioli's sign:
Ere the dawn of the morning Cremona'll be mine;
For Merci will open the gate of the Po,
But scant is the mercy Prince Vaudemont will shew!"<...

Thomas Osborne Davis

Arms And The Man. - The Beleaguered Town.

Behind the town the sun sinks down
Gilding the vane upon the spire,
While many a wall reels to its fall
Beneath the fell artillery fire.

As sinks that sun mortar and gun
Like living things leap grim and hot,
And far and wide across the tide
Spray-furrows show the flying shot.

White smoke in clouds yon earthwork shrouds
Where, steeped in battle to the lips,
The French amain pour fiery rain
On town, and walls, and English ships.

That deadly sleet smites lines and fleet,
As closes in the Autumn night,
And Aboville from head to heel
Thrills with the battle's wild delight.

At every flash oak timbers crash -
A sudden glare yon frigate dyes!
Then flames up-gush, and roar, and rush,
From deck to where her pennon flies!

James Barron Hope

The Cathedral of Rheims

(From the French of Emile Verhaeren)



He who walks through the meadows of Champagne
At noon in Fall, when leaves like gold appear,
Sees it draw near
Like some great mountain set upon the plain,
From radiant dawn until the close of day,
Nearer it grows
To him who goes
Across the country.    When tall towers lay
Their shadowy pall
Upon his way,
He enters, where
The solid stone is hollowed deep by all
Its centuries of beauty and of prayer.

Ancient French temple! thou whose hundred kings
Watch over thee, emblazoned on thy walls,
Tell me, within thy memory-hallowed halls
What chant of triumph, or what war-song rings?
Thou hast known Clovis and his Frankish train,
Whose mighty hand Saint Remy's hand did keep
And in thy spac...

Alfred Joyce Kilmer