Knelling the spot where Gallic soil defiled
Showed her sons'
valour as a frenzied child
In arms of the mailed man.
Word that her mind must bear, her heart put under ban,
Lest burst it: unto her eyes a ghost,
Incredible though
manifest: a scene
Stamped with her new Saint's name: and all his host
A wattled flock the foeman's dogs between!
VII
Mark where a credible ghost pulls
bridle to view that bare
Corpse of a field still reddening cloud, and alive in its throes
Beneath her Purgatorial Saint's evocative stare:
Brand on his name, the gulf of his glory, his Legend's close.
A lustreless Phosphor heading for daybeam Night's dead-born,
His
underworld eyeballs grip the cast of the land for a fray
Expugnant; swift up the heights, with the Victor's
instinctive scorn
Of the trapped below, he rides; he beholds, and a two-fold grey,
Even as the misty sun growing moon that a frost enrings,
Is
shroud on the
shrouded; he knows him there in the helmeted ranks.
The golden eagles flap lame wings,
The black double-headed are round their flanks.
He is there in midst of the pupils he harried to brains awake, trod
into union; lo,
These are his Epic's tutored Dardans, yon that Rhapsode's Achaeans
to know.
Nor is aught of an equipollent
conflict seen, nor the weaker's
flashed device;
Headless is offered a breast to beaks
deliberate,
formal, assured,
precise.
Ruled by the mathematician's hand, they solve their problem, as on a
slate.
This is the ground foremarked, and the day; their leader modestly
hazarded date.
His helmeted ranks might be draggers of pools or reapers of plains
for the
warrior's guile
Displayed; they haul, they rend, as in some
orderly office
mercantile.
And a timed
artillery speaks full-mouthed on a stuttering feeble
reduced to nought.
Can it be France, an army of France, tricked, netted, convulsive,
all writhen caught?
Arterial blood of an army's heart outpoured the Grey Observer sees:
A forest of France in
thunder comes, like a landslide hurled off her
Pyrenees.
Torrent and forest ramp, roll, sling on for a
charge against iron,
reason, Fate;
It is gapped through the mass
midway, bare ribs and dust ere the
helmeted feel its weight.
So the blue
billow white-plumed is plunged upon
shingle to screaming
withdrawal, but snatched,
Waved is the
laureleternal yielded by Death o'er the waste of brave
men outmatched.
The France of the fury was there, the thing he had wielded, whose
honour was dearer than life;
The Prussia despised, the harried, the trodden, was here; his pupil,
the
scholar in strife.
He hated to heel, in a spasm of will,
From sleep or
debate, a mannikin squire
With head of a merlin hawk and quill
Acrow on an ear. At him rained fire
From a blast of eyeballs hotter than speech,
To say what a
deadlypoison stuffed
The France here laid in her
bloody ditch,
Through the Legend passing human puffed.
Credible ghost of the field which from him descends,
Each dark
anniversary day will its father return,
Haling his shadow to spy where the Legend ends,
That penman
trumpeter's part in the wreck discern.
There, with the cup it presents at her lips, she stands,
France, with her future staked on the word it may pledge.
The
vengeance urged of desire a reserve countermands;
The
patience clasped totters hard on the
precipice edge.