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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!




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