("O Dieu, si vous avez la France.")

[VII., August, 1832.]


O God! if France be still thy guardian care,
Oh! spare these mercenary combats, spare!
The thrones that now are reared but to be broke;
The rights we render, and anon revoke;
The muddy stream of laws, ideas, needs,
Flooding our social life as it proceeds;
Opposing tribunes, even when seeming one -
Soft, yielding plaster put in place of stone;
Wave chasing wave in endless ebb and flow;
War, darker still and deeper in its woe;
One party fall'n, successor scarce preludes,
Than, straight, new views their furious feuds;
The great man's pressure on the poor for gold,
Rumors uncertain, conflicts, crimes untold;
Dark systems hatched in secret and in fear,
Telling of hate and strife...

When hungry wolves had trespass'd on the fold,
And the robb'd shepherd his sad story told,
"Call in Alcides," said a crafty priest,
"Give him one half and he'll secure the rest."
No, said the shepherd, if the Fates decree,
By ravaging my flock to ruin me,
To their commands I willingly resign,
Power is their character, and patience mine;
Though troth, to me there seems but little odds
Who prove the greatest robbers, wolves or gods.

I saw the spirit of the pines that spoke
With spirits of the ocean and the storm:
Against the tumult rose its tattered form,
Wild rain and darkness round it like a cloak.
Fearful it stood, limbed like some twisted oak,
Gesticulating with one giant arm,
Raised as in protest of the night's alarm,
Defiant still of some impending stroke.
Below it, awful in its majesty,
The spirit of the deep, with rushing locks,
Raved: and above it, lightning-clad and shod,
Thundered the tempest. Thus they stood, the three;
Terror around them; while, upon the rocks,
Destruction danced, mocking at man and God.

Often when warring for he wist not what,
An enemy-soldier, passing by one weak,
Has tendered water, wiped the burning cheek,
And cooled the lips so black and clammed and hot;

Then gone his way, and maybe quite forgot
The deed of grace amid the roar and reek;
Yet larger vision than loud arms bespeak
He there has reached, although he has known it not.

For natural mindsight, triumphing in the act
Over the throes of artificial rage,
Has thuswise muffled victory's peal of pride,
Rended to ribands policy's specious page
That deals but with evasion, code, and pact,
And war's apology wholly stultified.

1915.

[Read at Re-union of the G. A. T., Madison, Wis., July 4, 1872.]


After the battles are over,
    And the war drums cease to beat,
And no more is heard on the hillside
    The sound of hurrying feet,
Full many a noble action,
    That was done in the days of strife,
By the soldier is half forgotten,
    In the peaceful walks of life.

Just as the tangled grasses,
    In Summer's warmth and light,
Grow over the graves of the fallen
    And hide them away from sight,
So many an act of valor,
    And many a deed sublime,
Fade from the mind of the soldier,
    O'ergrown by the grass of time.

Not so should they be rewarded,
    Those noble deeds of old;
They should live forever and ever,
    When the heroes' hearts are cold...

Do not worry if I scurry from the grill room in a hurry,
    Dropping hastily my curry and retiring into balk;
Do not let it cause you wonder if, by some mischance or blunder,
    We encounter on the Underground and I get out and walk.

If I double as a cub'll when you meet him in the stubble,
    Do not think I am in trouble or attempt to make a fuss;
Do not judge me melancholy or attribute it to folly
    If I leave the Metropolitan and travel 'n a bus.

Do not quiet your anxiety by giving me a diet,
    Or by base resort to vi et armis fold me to your arms,
And let no suspicious tremor violate your wonted phlegm or
    Any fear that Harold's memory is faithless to your charms.

For my passion as I dash on in that disconcerting fashion
    Is as arden...

I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide,
As being past away. Vain sympathies!
For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes,
I see what was, and is, and will abide;
Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide;
The Form remains, the Function never dies;
While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise,
We Men, who in our morn of youth defied
The elements, must vanish; be it so!
Enough, if something from our hands have power
To live, and act, and serve the future hour;
And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,
Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower,
We feel that we are greater than we know.

This April sun has wakened into cheer
    The wintry paths of thought, and tinged with gold
    These threadbare leaves of fancy brown and old.
This is for us the wakening of the year
    And May's sweet breath will draw the waiting soul
    To where in distance lies the longed-for goal.

The summer life will still all questioning,
    The leaves will whisper peace, and calm will be
    The wild, vast, blue, illimitable sea.
And we shall hush our murmurings, and bring
    To Nature, green below and blue above,
    A whole life's worshipping, a whole life's love.

We will not speak of sometime fretting fears,
    We will not think of aught that may arise
    In future hours to cloud our golden skies.
Some souls there are who love their woes and tears,

Argument.

The Second Day.

Night, Spirit of the Andes, Valdivia, Lautaro, Missionary, The
Hermitage.

The night was still and clear, when, o'er the snows,
Andes! thy melancholy Spirit rose,
A shadow stern and sad: he stood alone,
Upon the topmost mountain's burning cone;
And whilst his eyes shone dim, through surging smoke,
Thus to the spirits of the fire he spoke:

Ye, who tread the hidden deeps,
Where the silent earthquake sleeps;
Ye, who track the sulphurous tide,
Or on hissing vapours ride,                                                                    
Spirits, come!
From worlds of subterraneous night;
From fiery realms of lurid light;
From the ore's unfathomed bed;
From the lava's whirlpools red,
Spirits, co...

My harp soon ceases; but I here allege
Its strings are in my heart and tremble there:
My Song's last strain shall be a claim and pledge -
        A claim, a pledge, a prayer!

I stand, as stood, in storied days of old,
Vasco Balboa staring o'er bright seas
When fair Pacific's tide of limpid gold
        Surged up against his knees.

For haughty Spain, her banner in his hand,
He claimed a New World, sea, and plain, and crag -
I claim the Future's Ocean for this land
        And here I plant her flag!

Float out, oh flag, from Freedom's burnished lance!
Float out, oh flag, in Red, and White, and Blue!
The Union's colors and the hues of France
        Commingled on the view!

Float out, oh flag, and all thy splendors wake!
Float out, oh f...

Soldier, wake, the day is peeping,
Honour ne'er was won in sleeping,
Never when the sunbeams still
Lay unreflected on the hill:
'Tis when they are glinted back
From axe and armour, spear and jack,
That they promise future story
Many a page of deathless glory.
Shields that are the foe man's terror,
Ever are the morning's mirror.

Arm and up, the morning beam
Hath call'd the rustic to his team,
Hath call'd the falc'ner to the lake,
Hath call'd the huntsman to the brake;
The early student ponders o'er
His dusty tomes of ancient lore.
Soldier, wake, thy harvest, fame;
Thy study, conquest; war, thy game.
Shield, that would be foeman's terror,
Still should gleam the morning's mirror.

Poor hire repays the rustic's pain;
More paltry...

Stop rowing! This one of our bye-canals
O’er a certain bridge you have to cross
That’s named, “Of the Angel:” listen why!
The name “Of the Devil” too much appalls
Venetian acquaintance, so, his the loss,
While the gain goes . . . look on high!

An angel visibly guards yon house:
Above each scutcheon, a pair, stands he,
Enfolds them with droop of either wing:
The family’s fortune were perilous
Did he thence depart, you will soon agree,
If I hitch into verse the thing.

For, once on a time, this house belonged
To a lawyer of note, with law and to spare,
But also with overmuch lust of gain:
In the matter of law you were nowise wronged,
But alas for the lucre! He picked you bare
To the bone. Did folk complain?

“I exact,” growled he, “work...

Ah! be not sad, though adverse winds may blow,
Thy patience and thy fortitude to prove;
Thy Saviour wears no frown upon his brow,
"'Tis but the graver countenance of love."

Though clouds and darkness round about him roll,
In righteousness and truth He sits enthroned;
And precious in His sight the immortal soul,
For whose deep stain of guilt His love atoned.

He makes our dearest earthly comforts flee,
Or, e'en when clustering round us, bids them pall,
That thus the "altogether lovely," He,
"Chief of ten thousand," may be all in all.

And hast thou not some blissful moments known,
Even while bowed beneath the chast'ning rod,
When to thy humble spirit it was shown
That glorious is the "City of thy God?"

Hast thou not seen the King in beauty...

Man says that He is jealous,
Man says that He is wise,
Man says that He is watching
From His throne beyond the skies.

But perchance the arch above us
Is one great mirror's span,
And the Figure seen so dimly
Is a vast reflected man.

If it is love that gave us
A thousand blossoms bright,
Why should that love not save us
From poisoned aconite?

If this man blesses sunshine
Which sets his fields aglow,
Shall that man curse the tempest
That lays his harvest low?

If you may sing His praises
For health He gave to you,
What of this spine-curved cripple,
Shall he sing praises too?

If you may justly thank Him
For strength in mind and limb,
Then what of yonder weakling —
Must he give thanks to Him?

Our good knight, Ted, girds his broadsword on
(And he wields it well, I ween);
He 's on his steed, and away has gone
To the fight for king and queen.
What tho' no edge the broadsword hath?
What tho' the blade be made of lath?
'T is a valiant hand
That wields the brand,
So, foeman, clear the path!

He prances off at a goodly pace;
'T is a noble steed he rides,
That bears as well in the speedy race
As he bears in battle-tides.
What tho' 't is but a rocking-chair
That prances with this stately air?
'T is a warrior bold
The reins doth hold,
Who bids all foes beware!

The Unicorn 's a first-rate sort.
He helps the Lion to support
The royal arms of England's King
And keep the Throne from tottering.
I wonder what the King would do
If his supporters all withdrew?
Perhaps he'd try the Stage; a Throne
Should be an easy stepping-stone
To histrionic Heights, and who
Knows till he tries what he can do?
The King, with diligence and care,
Might rise to be a Manager.

It was not in the open fight
We threw away the sword,
But in the lonely watching
In the darkness by the ford.
The waters lapped, the night-wind blew,
Full-armed the Fear was born and grew,
And we were flying ere we knew
From panic in the night.

There are not leaders to lead us to honour, and yet without leaders we sally,
Each man reporting for duty alone, out of sight, out of reach, of his fellow.
There are no bugles to call the battalions, and yet without bugle we rally
From the ends of the earth to the ends of the earth, to follow the Standard of Yellow!
Fall in! O fall in! O fall in!


Not where the squadrons mass,
Not where the bayonets shine,
Not where the big shell shout as they pass
Over the firing-line;
Not where the wounded are,
Not where the nations die,
Killed in the cleanly game of war,
That is no place for a spy!
O Princes, Thrones and Powers, your work is less than ours,
Here is no place for a spy!

Trained to another use,
We march with colours furled,
Only concerned...