In France, abased and like a shrunken corse;
Amid the weakest weak, the lowest low,
From the highest fallen,
stagnant off her source;
Condemned to hear the nations'
hostile mirth;
See curtained heavens, and smell a
sulphurous earth;
Which told how
evermore shall
tyrant Force
Beget the greater for its overthrow.
The song of Liberty in her
hearing spoke
A foreign tongue; Earth's fluttering little lyre
Unlike, but like the raven's ravening croak.
Not till her
breath of being could aspire
Anew, this loved and scourged of Angels found
Our common
brotherhood in sight and sound:
When
mellow rang the name Napoleon,
And dim aloft her young Angelical waved.
Between
ethereal and gross to choose,
She swung; her soul desired, her senses craved.
They pricked her dreams, while oft her skies were dun
Behind o'ershadowing foemen: on a tide
They drew the nature having need of pride
Among her fellows for its vital dues:
He seen like some rare treasure-galleon,
Hull down, with masts against the Western hues.
FRANCE--DECEMBER 1870
I
We look for her that sunlike stood
Upon the
forehead of our day,
An orb of nations, radiating food
For body and for mind alway.
Where is the Shape of glad array;
The
nervous hands, the front of steel,
The clarion tongue? Where is the bold proud face?
We see a
vacant place;
We hear an iron heel.
II
O she that made the brave appeal
For
manhood when our time was dark,
And from our fetters drove the spark
Which was as
lightning to reveal
New seasons, with the swifter play
Of pulses, and benigner day;
She that divinely shook the dead
From living man; that stretched ahead
Her
resoluteforefinger straight,
And marched toward the
gloomy gate
Of earth's Untried, gave note, and in
The good name of Humanity
Called forth the
daring vision! she,
She
likewise half
corrupt of sin,
Angel and Wanton! can it be?
Her star has foundered in eclipse,
The
shriek of
madness on her lips;
Shreds of her, and no more, we see.
There is
horribleconvulsion, smothered din,
As of one that in a grave-cloth struggles to be free.
III
Look not for spreading boughs
On the riven forest tree.
Look down where deep in blood and mire
Black
thunder plants his feet and ploughs
The soil for ruin: that is France:
Still thrilling like a lyre,
Amazed to shivering
discord from a fall
Sudden as that the lurid hosts recall
Who met in heaven the irreparable mischance.
O that is France!