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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.






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