Of what she holds within
Responsive to Life's deeper springs.
She above the nations blest
In
fruitful and in liveliest,
In all that servant earth to
heavenly bidding brings,
The devotee of Glory, she may win
Glory despoiling none,
enrich her kind,
Illume her land, and take the royal seat
Unto the strong self-
conqueror assigned.
But ah, when speaks a loaded
breath the double name,
Humanity's old Foeman winks agrin.
Her
constant Angel eyes her heart's quick beat,
The
thrill of shadow coursing through her frame.
Like wind among the ranks of amber wheat.
Our Europe, vowed to unity or torn,
Observes her face, as shepherds note the morn,
And in a ruddy
beacon mark an end
That for the flock in their grave
hearing rings.
Specked
overhead the
imminent vulture wings
At poise, one fatal
movement indiscreet,
Sprung from the Aetna passions' mad revolts,
Draws down; the
midnight hovers to descend;
And dire as Indian noons of ulcer heat
Anticipating
tempest and the bolts,
Hangs curtained terrors round her next day's door,
Death's emblems for the breast of Europe flings;
The breast that waits a spark to fire her store.
Shall, then, the great
vitality, France,
Signal the
backward step once more;
Again a Goddess Fortune trace
Amid the Deities, and
pledge to chance
One whom we never could replace?
Now may she tune her nature's many strings
To noble
harmony, be seen, be known.
It was the foreign France, the
unruly, feared;
Little for all her witcheries endeared;
Theatrical of
arrogance, a sprite
With
gaseous vapours overblown,
In her
conceit of power ensphered,
Foredoomed to
violate and atone;
Her the grim
conqueror's iron might
Avengeing clutched, distrusting rent;
Not that sharp
intellect with fire endowed
To
cleave our webs, run lightnings through our cloud;
Not virtual France, the France benevolent,
The
chivalrous, the many-stringed, sublime
At intervals, and oft in sweetest chime;
Though perilously instrument,
A breast for any having
godlike gleam.
This France could no
antagonist disesteem,
To spurn at heel and
confiscate her brood.
Albeit a waverer between heart and mind,
And laurels won from sky or plucked from blood,
Which
wither all the
wreath when intertwined,
This cherishable France she may redeem.
Beloved of Earth, her heart should feel at length
How much unto Earth's offspring it doth owe.
Obstructions are for levelling, have we strength;
'Tis
poverty of soul conceived a foe.
Rejected be the wrath that keeps unhealed
Her panting wound; to higher Courts appealed
The wrongs discerned of higher: Europe waits:
She chooses God or gambles with the Fates.
Shines the new Helen in Alsace-Lorraine,
A darker river severs Rhine and Rhone,
Is heard a deadlier Epic of the twain;
We see a Paris burn
Or France Napoleon.
For yet he
breathes whom less her heart forswears
While trembles its desire to
thwart her mind:
The Tyrant lives in Victory's return.
What figure with recurrent
footstep fares