FRANCE,December 1870

I.Prince of Bards was old Aneurin;He the grand Gododin sang;All his numbers threw such fire in,Struck his harp so wild a twang;—Still the wakeful Briton borrowsWisdom from its ancient heat:Still it haunts our source of sorrows,Deep excess of liquor sweet!II.Here the Briton, there the Saxon,Face to face, three fields apart,Thirst for light to lay their thwacks onEach the other with good heart.Dry the Saxon sits, 'mid dinfulNoise of iron knits his steel:Fresh and roaring with a skinful,Britons round the hirlas reel.III.Yellow flamed the meady sunset;Red runs up the flag of morn.Signal for the British onsetHiccups through the British horn.Down these hillmen pour like cattleSniffing pasture: grim below,Showing eager teeth of battleIn his spear-heads lies the foe.IV.—Monster of the sea! we drive himBack into his hungry brine.—You shall lodge him, feed him, wive him.Look on us; we stand in line.—Pale sea-monster! foul the watersCast him; foul he leaves our land.—You shall yield us land and daughters:Stay the tongue, and try the hand.V.Swift as torrent-streams our warriors,Tossing torrent lights, find way;Burst the ridges, crowd the barriers,Pierce them where the spear-heads play;Turn them as the clods in furrow,Top them like the leaping foam;Sorrow to the mother, sorrow,Sorrow to the wife at home!VI.Stags, they butted; bulls, they bellowed;Hounds, we baited them; oh, brave!Every second man, unfellowed,Took the strokes of two, and gave.Bare as hop-stakes in November'sMists they met our battle-flood:Hoary-red as Winter's embersLay their dead lines done in blood.VII.Thou, my Bard, didst hang thy lyre inOak-leaves, and with crimson brandRhythmic fury spent, Aneurin;Songs the churls could understand:Thrumming on their Saxon sconcesStraight, the invariable blow,Till they snorted true responses.Ever thus the Bard they know!VIII.But ere nightfall, harper lusty!When the sun was like a ballDropping on the battle dusty,What was yon discordant call?Cambria's old metheglin demonBreathed against our rushing tide;Clove us midst the threshing seamen:—Gashed, we saw our ranks divide!IX.Britain then with valedictoryShriek veiled off her face and knelt.Full of liquor, full of victory,Chief on chief old vengeance dealt.Backward swung their hurly-burly;None but dead men kept the fight.They that drink their cup too early,Darkness they shall see ere night.X.Loud we heard the yellow roverLaugh to sleep, while we raged thick,Thick as ants the ant-hill over,Asking who has thrust the stick.Lo, as frogs that Winter cumbersMeet the Spring with stiffen'd yawn,We from our hard night of slumbers,Marched into the bloody dawn.XI.Day on day we fought, though shattered;Pushed and met repulses sharp,Till our Raven's plumes were scattered:All, save old Aneurin's harp.Hear it wailing like a motherO'er the strings of children slain!He in one tongue, in another,Alien, I; one blood, yet twain.XII.Old Aneurin! droop no longer.That squat ocean-scum, we own,Had fine stoutness, made us stronger,Brought us much-required backbone:Claim'd of Power their dues, and grantedDues to Power in turn, when roseMightier rovers; they that plantedSovereign here the Norman nose.XIII.Glorious men, with heads of eagles,Chopping arms, and cupboard lips;Warriors, hunters, keen as beagles,Mounted aye on horse or ships.Active, being hungry creatures;Silent, having nought to say:High they raised the lord of features,Saxon-worshipped to this day.XIV.Hear its deeds, the great recital!Stout as bergs of Arctic iceOnce it led, and lived; a titleNow it is, and names its price.This our Saxon brothers cherish:This, when by the worth of witsLands are reared aloft, or perish,Sole illumes their lucre-pits.XV.Know we not our wrongs, unwrittenThough they be, Aneurin? Sword,Song, and subtle mind, the BritonBrings to market, all ignored.'Gainst the Saxon's bone impinging,Still is our Gododin played;Shamed we see him humbly cringingIn a shadowy nose's shade.XVI.Bitter is the weight that crushesLow, my Bard, thy race of fire.Here no fair young future blushesBridal to a man's desire.Neither chief, nor aim, nor splendourDressing distance, we perceive;Neither honour, nor the tenderBloom of promise, morn or eve.XVII.Joined we are; a tide of racesRolled to meet a common fate;England clasps in her embracesMany: what is England's state?England her distended middleThumps with pride as Mammon's wife;Says that thus she reads thy riddle,Heaven! 'tis heaven to plump her life.XVIII.O my Bard! a yellow liquor,Like to that we drank of old—Gold is her metheglin beaker,She destruction drinks in gold.Warn her, Bard, that Power is pressingHotly for his dues this hour;Tell her that no drunken blessingStops the onward march of Power.XIX.Has she ears to take forewarningsShe will cleanse her of her stains,Feed and speed for braver morningsValorously the growth of brains.Power, the hard man knit for action,Reads each nation on the brow.Cripple, fool, and petrifaction,Fall to him—are falling now!

Prince of Bards was old Aneurin;He the grand Gododin sang;All his numbers threw such fire in,Struck his harp so wild a twang;—Still the wakeful Briton borrowsWisdom from its ancient heat:Still it haunts our source of sorrows,Deep excess of liquor sweet!

Prince of Bards was old Aneurin;

He the grand Gododin sang;

All his numbers threw such fire in,

Struck his harp so wild a twang;—

Still the wakeful Briton borrows

Wisdom from its ancient heat:

Still it haunts our source of sorrows,

Deep excess of liquor sweet!

II.

Here the Briton, there the Saxon,Face to face, three fields apart,Thirst for light to lay their thwacks onEach the other with good heart.Dry the Saxon sits, 'mid dinfulNoise of iron knits his steel:Fresh and roaring with a skinful,Britons round the hirlas reel.

Here the Briton, there the Saxon,

Face to face, three fields apart,

Thirst for light to lay their thwacks on

Each the other with good heart.

Dry the Saxon sits, 'mid dinful

Noise of iron knits his steel:

Fresh and roaring with a skinful,

Britons round the hirlas reel.

III.

Yellow flamed the meady sunset;Red runs up the flag of morn.Signal for the British onsetHiccups through the British horn.Down these hillmen pour like cattleSniffing pasture: grim below,Showing eager teeth of battleIn his spear-heads lies the foe.

Yellow flamed the meady sunset;

Red runs up the flag of morn.

Signal for the British onset

Hiccups through the British horn.

Down these hillmen pour like cattle

Sniffing pasture: grim below,

Showing eager teeth of battle

In his spear-heads lies the foe.

IV.

—Monster of the sea! we drive himBack into his hungry brine.—You shall lodge him, feed him, wive him.Look on us; we stand in line.—Pale sea-monster! foul the watersCast him; foul he leaves our land.—You shall yield us land and daughters:Stay the tongue, and try the hand.

—Monster of the sea! we drive him

Back into his hungry brine.

—You shall lodge him, feed him, wive him.

Look on us; we stand in line.

—Pale sea-monster! foul the waters

Cast him; foul he leaves our land.

—You shall yield us land and daughters:

Stay the tongue, and try the hand.

Swift as torrent-streams our warriors,Tossing torrent lights, find way;Burst the ridges, crowd the barriers,Pierce them where the spear-heads play;Turn them as the clods in furrow,Top them like the leaping foam;Sorrow to the mother, sorrow,Sorrow to the wife at home!

Swift as torrent-streams our warriors,

Tossing torrent lights, find way;

Burst the ridges, crowd the barriers,

Pierce them where the spear-heads play;

Turn them as the clods in furrow,

Top them like the leaping foam;

Sorrow to the mother, sorrow,

Sorrow to the wife at home!

VI.

Stags, they butted; bulls, they bellowed;Hounds, we baited them; oh, brave!Every second man, unfellowed,Took the strokes of two, and gave.Bare as hop-stakes in November'sMists they met our battle-flood:Hoary-red as Winter's embersLay their dead lines done in blood.

Stags, they butted; bulls, they bellowed;

Hounds, we baited them; oh, brave!

Every second man, unfellowed,

Took the strokes of two, and gave.

Bare as hop-stakes in November's

Mists they met our battle-flood:

Hoary-red as Winter's embers

Lay their dead lines done in blood.

VII.

Thou, my Bard, didst hang thy lyre inOak-leaves, and with crimson brandRhythmic fury spent, Aneurin;Songs the churls could understand:Thrumming on their Saxon sconcesStraight, the invariable blow,Till they snorted true responses.Ever thus the Bard they know!

Thou, my Bard, didst hang thy lyre in

Oak-leaves, and with crimson brand

Rhythmic fury spent, Aneurin;

Songs the churls could understand:

Thrumming on their Saxon sconces

Straight, the invariable blow,

Till they snorted true responses.

Ever thus the Bard they know!

VIII.

But ere nightfall, harper lusty!When the sun was like a ballDropping on the battle dusty,What was yon discordant call?Cambria's old metheglin demonBreathed against our rushing tide;Clove us midst the threshing seamen:—Gashed, we saw our ranks divide!

But ere nightfall, harper lusty!

When the sun was like a ball

Dropping on the battle dusty,

What was yon discordant call?

Cambria's old metheglin demon

Breathed against our rushing tide;

Clove us midst the threshing seamen:—

Gashed, we saw our ranks divide!

IX.

Britain then with valedictoryShriek veiled off her face and knelt.Full of liquor, full of victory,Chief on chief old vengeance dealt.Backward swung their hurly-burly;None but dead men kept the fight.They that drink their cup too early,Darkness they shall see ere night.

Britain then with valedictory

Shriek veiled off her face and knelt.

Full of liquor, full of victory,

Chief on chief old vengeance dealt.

Backward swung their hurly-burly;

None but dead men kept the fight.

They that drink their cup too early,

Darkness they shall see ere night.

Loud we heard the yellow roverLaugh to sleep, while we raged thick,Thick as ants the ant-hill over,Asking who has thrust the stick.Lo, as frogs that Winter cumbersMeet the Spring with stiffen'd yawn,We from our hard night of slumbers,Marched into the bloody dawn.

Loud we heard the yellow rover

Laugh to sleep, while we raged thick,

Thick as ants the ant-hill over,

Asking who has thrust the stick.

Lo, as frogs that Winter cumbers

Meet the Spring with stiffen'd yawn,

We from our hard night of slumbers,

Marched into the bloody dawn.

XI.

Day on day we fought, though shattered;Pushed and met repulses sharp,Till our Raven's plumes were scattered:All, save old Aneurin's harp.Hear it wailing like a motherO'er the strings of children slain!He in one tongue, in another,Alien, I; one blood, yet twain.

Day on day we fought, though shattered;

Pushed and met repulses sharp,

Till our Raven's plumes were scattered:

All, save old Aneurin's harp.

Hear it wailing like a mother

O'er the strings of children slain!

He in one tongue, in another,

Alien, I; one blood, yet twain.

XII.

Old Aneurin! droop no longer.That squat ocean-scum, we own,Had fine stoutness, made us stronger,Brought us much-required backbone:Claim'd of Power their dues, and grantedDues to Power in turn, when roseMightier rovers; they that plantedSovereign here the Norman nose.

Old Aneurin! droop no longer.

That squat ocean-scum, we own,

Had fine stoutness, made us stronger,

Brought us much-required backbone:

Claim'd of Power their dues, and granted

Dues to Power in turn, when rose

Mightier rovers; they that planted

Sovereign here the Norman nose.

XIII.

Glorious men, with heads of eagles,Chopping arms, and cupboard lips;Warriors, hunters, keen as beagles,Mounted aye on horse or ships.Active, being hungry creatures;Silent, having nought to say:High they raised the lord of features,Saxon-worshipped to this day.

Glorious men, with heads of eagles,

Chopping arms, and cupboard lips;

Warriors, hunters, keen as beagles,

Mounted aye on horse or ships.

Active, being hungry creatures;

Silent, having nought to say:

High they raised the lord of features,

Saxon-worshipped to this day.

XIV.

Hear its deeds, the great recital!Stout as bergs of Arctic iceOnce it led, and lived; a titleNow it is, and names its price.This our Saxon brothers cherish:This, when by the worth of witsLands are reared aloft, or perish,Sole illumes their lucre-pits.

Hear its deeds, the great recital!

Stout as bergs of Arctic ice

Once it led, and lived; a title

Now it is, and names its price.

This our Saxon brothers cherish:

This, when by the worth of wits

Lands are reared aloft, or perish,

Sole illumes their lucre-pits.

XV.

Know we not our wrongs, unwrittenThough they be, Aneurin? Sword,Song, and subtle mind, the BritonBrings to market, all ignored.'Gainst the Saxon's bone impinging,Still is our Gododin played;Shamed we see him humbly cringingIn a shadowy nose's shade.

Know we not our wrongs, unwritten

Though they be, Aneurin? Sword,

Song, and subtle mind, the Briton

Brings to market, all ignored.

'Gainst the Saxon's bone impinging,

Still is our Gododin played;

Shamed we see him humbly cringing

In a shadowy nose's shade.

XVI.

Bitter is the weight that crushesLow, my Bard, thy race of fire.Here no fair young future blushesBridal to a man's desire.Neither chief, nor aim, nor splendourDressing distance, we perceive;Neither honour, nor the tenderBloom of promise, morn or eve.

Bitter is the weight that crushes

Low, my Bard, thy race of fire.

Here no fair young future blushes

Bridal to a man's desire.

Neither chief, nor aim, nor splendour

Dressing distance, we perceive;

Neither honour, nor the tender

Bloom of promise, morn or eve.

XVII.

Joined we are; a tide of racesRolled to meet a common fate;England clasps in her embracesMany: what is England's state?England her distended middleThumps with pride as Mammon's wife;Says that thus she reads thy riddle,Heaven! 'tis heaven to plump her life.

Joined we are; a tide of races

Rolled to meet a common fate;

England clasps in her embraces

Many: what is England's state?

England her distended middle

Thumps with pride as Mammon's wife;

Says that thus she reads thy riddle,

Heaven! 'tis heaven to plump her life.

XVIII.

O my Bard! a yellow liquor,Like to that we drank of old—Gold is her metheglin beaker,She destruction drinks in gold.Warn her, Bard, that Power is pressingHotly for his dues this hour;Tell her that no drunken blessingStops the onward march of Power.

O my Bard! a yellow liquor,

Like to that we drank of old—

Gold is her metheglin beaker,

She destruction drinks in gold.

Warn her, Bard, that Power is pressing

Hotly for his dues this hour;

Tell her that no drunken blessing

Stops the onward march of Power.

XIX.

Has she ears to take forewarningsShe will cleanse her of her stains,Feed and speed for braver morningsValorously the growth of brains.Power, the hard man knit for action,Reads each nation on the brow.Cripple, fool, and petrifaction,Fall to him—are falling now!

Has she ears to take forewarnings

She will cleanse her of her stains,

Feed and speed for braver mornings

Valorously the growth of brains.

Power, the hard man knit for action,

Reads each nation on the brow.

Cripple, fool, and petrifaction,

Fall to him—are falling now!

I.We look for her that sunlike stoodUpon the forehead of our day,An orb of nations, radiating foodFor 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 appealFor manhood when our time was dark,And from our fetters drove the sparkWhich was as lightning to revealNew seasons, with the swifter playOf pulses, and benigner day;She that divinely shook the deadFrom living man; that stretched aheadHer resolute forefinger straight,And marched toward the gloomy gateOf earth's Untried, gave note, and inThe good name of HumanityCalled 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 horrible convulsion, smothered din,As of one that in a grave-cloth struggles to be free.III.Look not for spreading boughsOn the riven forest tree.Look down where deep in blood and mireBlack thunder plants his feet and ploughsThe soil for ruin: that is France:Still thrilling like a lyre,Amazed to shivering discord from a fallSudden as that the lurid hosts recallWho met in heaven the irreparable mischance.O that is France!The brilliant eyes to kindle bliss,The shrewd quick lips to laugh and kiss,Breasts that a sighing world inspire,And laughter-dimpled countenanceWhere soul and senses caught desire!IV.Ever invoking fire from Heaven, the fireHas grasped her, unconsumeable, but framedFor all the ecstasies of suffering dire.Mother of Pride, her sanctuary shamed:Mother of Delicacy, and made a markFor outrage: Mother of Luxury, stripped stark:Mother of Heroes, bondsmen: thro' the rains,Across her boundaries, lo the league-long chains!Fond Mother of her martial youth; they pass,Are spectres in her sight, are mown as grass!Mother of Honour, and dishonoured: MotherOf Glory, she condemned to crown with baysHer victor, and be fountain of his praise.Is there another curse? There is another:Compassionate her madness: is she notMother of Reason? she that sees them mownLike grass, her young ones! Yea, in the low groanAnd under the fixed thunder of this hourWhich holds the animate world in one foul blotTranced circumambient while relentless PowerBeaks at her heart and claws her limbs down-thrown,She, with the plunging lightnings overshot,With madness for an armour against pain,With milkless breasts for little ones athirst,And round her all her noblest dying in vain,Mother of Reason is she, trebly cursed,To feel, to see, to justify the blow;Chamber to chamber of her sequent brainGives answer of the cause of her great woe,Inexorably echoing thro' the vaults,''Tis thus they reap in blood, in blood who sow:'This is the sum of self-absolvëd faults.'Doubt not that thro' her grief, with sight supreme,Thro' her delirium and despair's last dream,Thro' pride, thro' bright illusion and the broodBewildering of her various Motherhood,The high strong light within her, tho' she bleeds,Traces the letters of returned misdeeds.She sees what seed long sown, ripened of late,Bears this fierce crop; and she discerns her fateFrom origin to agony, and onAs far as the wave washes long and wanOff one disastrous impulse: for of wavesOur life is, and our deeds are pregnant gravesBlown rolling to the sunset from the dawn.V.Ah, what a dawn of splendour, when her sowersWent forth and bent the necks of populations,And of their terrors and humiliationsWove her the starry wreath that earthward lowersNow in the figure of a burning yoke!Her legions traversed North and South and East,Of triumph they enjoyed the glutton's feast:They grafted the green sprig, they lopped the oak.They caught by the beard the tempests, by the scalpThe icy precipices, and clove sheer throughThe heart of horror of the pinnacled Alp,Emerging not as men whom mortals knew.They were the earthquake and the hurricane,The lightnings and the locusts, plagues of blight,Plagues of the revel: they were Deluge rain,And dreaded Conflagration; lawless Might.Death writes a reeling line along the snows,Where under frozen mists they may be tracked,Who men and elements provoked to foes,And Gods: they were of God and Beast compact:Abhorred of all. Yet, how they sucked the teatsOf Carnage, thirsty issue of their dam,Whose eagles, angrier than their oriflamme,Flushed the vext earth with blood, green earth forgets.The gay young generations mask her grief;Where bled her children hangs the loaded sheaf.Forgetful is green earth; the Gods aloneRemember everlastingly: they strikeRemorselessly, and ever like for like.By their great memories the Gods are known.VI.They are with her now, and in her ears, and known.'Tis they that cast her to the dust for Strength,Their slave, to feed on her fair body's length,That once the sweetest and the proudest shone;Scoring for hideous dismembermentHer limbs, as were the anguish-taking breathGone out of her in the insufferable descentFrom her high chieftainship; as were she death,Who hears a voice of justice, feels the knifeOf torture, drinks all ignominy of life.They are with her, and the painful Gods might weep,If ever rain of tears came out of heavenTo flatter Weakness and bid Conscience sleep,Viewing the woe of this Immortal, drivenFor the soul's life to drain the maddening cupOf her own children's blood implacably:Unsparing even as they to furrow upThe yellow land to likeness of a sea:The bountiful fair land of vine and grain,Of wit and grace and ardour, and strong roots,Fruits perishable, imperishable fruits;Furrowed to likeness of the dim grey mainBehind the black obliterating cyclone.VII.Behold, the Gods are with her, and are known.Whom they abandon misery persecutesNo more: them half-eyed apathy may loanThe happiness of pitiable brutes.Whom the just Gods abandon have no light,No ruthless light of introspective eyesThat in the midst of misery scrutinizeThe heart and its iniquities outright.They rest, they smile and rest; have earned perchanceOf ancient service quiet for a term;Quiet of old men dropping to the worm;And so goes out the soul. But not of France.She cries for grief, and to the Gods she cries,For fearfully their loosened hands chastize,And icily they watch the rod's caressRavage her flesh from scourges merciless,But she, inveterate of brain, discernsThat Pity has as little place as JoyAmong their roll of gifts; for Strength she yearns,For Strength, her idol once, too long her toy.Lo, Strength is of the plain root-Virtues born:Strength shall ye gain by service, prove in scorn,Train by endurance, by devotion shape.Strength is not won by miracle or rape.It is the offspring of the modest years,The gift of sire to son, thro' those firm lawsWhich we name Gods; which are the righteous cause,The cause of man, and manhood's ministers.Could France accept the fables of her priests,Who blest her banners in this game of beasts,And now bid hope that heaven will intercedeTo violate its laws in her sore need,She would find comfort in their opiates:Mother of Reason! can she cheat the Fates?Would she, the champion of the open mind,The Omnipotent's prime gift—the gift of growth—Consent even for a night-time to be blind,And sink her soul on the delusive sloth,For fruits ethereal and material, both,In peril of her place among mankind?The Mother of the many Laughters mightCall one poor shade of laughter in the lightOf her unwavering lamp to mark what thingsThe world puts faith in, careless of the truth:What silly puppet-bodies danced on strings,Attached by credence, we appear in sooth,Demanding intercession, direct aid,When the whole tragic tale hangs on a broken blade!She swung the sword for centuries; in a dayIt slipped her, like a stream cut off from source.She struck a feeble hand, and tried to pray,Clamoured of treachery, and had recourseTo drunken outcries in her dream that ForceNeeded but hear her shouting to obey.Was she not formed to conquer? The bright plumesOf crested vanity shed graceful nods:Transcendent in her foundries, Arts and looms,Had France to fear the vengeance of the Gods?Her faith was on her battle-roll of namesSheathed in the records of old war; with danceAnd song she thrilled her warriors and her dames,Embracing her Dishonourer: gave him FranceFrom head to foot, France present and to come,So she might hear the trumpet and the drum—Bellona and Bacchante! rushing forthOn yon stout marching Schoolmen of the North.Inveterate of brain, well knows she whyStrength failed her, faithful to himself the first:Her dream is done, and she can read the sky,And she can take into her heart the worstCalamity to drug the shameful thoughtOf days that made her as the man she served,A name of terror, but a thing unnerved:Buying the trickster, by the trickster bought,She for dominion, he to patch a throne.VIII.Henceforth of her the Gods are known,Open to them her breast is laid.Inveterate of brain, heart-valiant,Never did fairer creature pantBefore the altar and the blade!IX.Swift fall the blows, and men upbraid,And friends give echo blunt and cold,The echo of the forest to the axe.Within her are the fires that waxFor resurrection from the mould.X.She snatched at heaven's flame of old,And kindled nations: she was weak:Frail sister of her heroic prototype,The Man; for sacrifice unripe,She too must fill a Vulture's beak.Deride the vanquished, and acclaimThe conqueror, who stains her fame,Still the Gods love her, for that of high aimIs this good France, the bleeding thing they stripe.XI.She shall rise worthier of her prototypeThro' her abasement deep; the pain that runsFrom nerve to nerve some victory achieves.They lie like circle-strewn soaked Autumn-leavesWhich stain the forest scarlet, her fair sons!And of their death her life is: of their bloodFrom many streams now urging to a flood,No more divided, France shall rise afresh.Of them she learns the lesson of the flesh:—The lesson writ in red since first Time ranA hunter hunting down the beast in man:That till the chasing out of its last vice,The flesh was fashioned but for sacrifice.Immortal Mother of a mortal host!Thou suffering of the wounds that will not slay,Wounds that bring death but take not life away!—Stand fast and hearken while thy victors boast:Hearken, and loathe that music evermore.Slip loose thy garments woven of pride and shame:The torture lurks in them, with them the blameShall pass to leave thee purer than before.Undo thy jewels, thinking whence they came,For what, and of the abominable nameOf her who in imperial beauty wore.O Mother of a fated fleeting hostConceived in the past days of sin, and bornHeirs of disease and arrogance and scorn,Surrender, yield the weight of thy great ghost,Like wings on air, to what the heavens proclaimWith trumpets from the multitudinous moundsWhere peace has filled the hearing of thy sons:Albeit a pang of dissolution roundsEach new discernment of the undying ones,Do thou stoop to these graves here scattered wideAlong thy fields, as sunless billows roll;These ashes have the lesson for the soul.'Die to thy Vanity, and strain thy Pride,Strip off thy Luxury: that thou may'st live,Die to thyself,' they say, 'as we have diedFrom dear existence, and the foe forgive,Nor pray for aught save in our little spaceTo warm good seed to greet the fair earth's face.'O Mother! take their counsel, and so shallThe broader world breathe in on this thy home,Light clear for thee the counter-changing dome,Strength give thee, like an ocean's vast expanseOff mountain cliffs, the generations all,Not whirling in their narrow rings of foam,But as a river forward. Soaring France!Now is Humanity on trial in thee:Now may'st thou gather humankind in fee:Now prove that Reason is a quenchless scroll;Make of calamity thine aureole,And bleeding lead us thro' the troubles of the sea.

We look for her that sunlike stoodUpon the forehead of our day,An orb of nations, radiating foodFor 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.

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 appealFor manhood when our time was dark,And from our fetters drove the sparkWhich was as lightning to revealNew seasons, with the swifter playOf pulses, and benigner day;She that divinely shook the deadFrom living man; that stretched aheadHer resolute forefinger straight,And marched toward the gloomy gateOf earth's Untried, gave note, and inThe good name of HumanityCalled 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 horrible convulsion, smothered din,As of one that in a grave-cloth struggles to be free.

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 resolute forefinger 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 horrible convulsion, smothered din,

As of one that in a grave-cloth struggles to be free.

III.

Look not for spreading boughsOn the riven forest tree.Look down where deep in blood and mireBlack thunder plants his feet and ploughsThe soil for ruin: that is France:Still thrilling like a lyre,Amazed to shivering discord from a fallSudden as that the lurid hosts recallWho met in heaven the irreparable mischance.O that is France!The brilliant eyes to kindle bliss,The shrewd quick lips to laugh and kiss,Breasts that a sighing world inspire,And laughter-dimpled countenanceWhere soul and senses caught desire!

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!

The brilliant eyes to kindle bliss,

The shrewd quick lips to laugh and kiss,

Breasts that a sighing world inspire,

And laughter-dimpled countenance

Where soul and senses caught desire!

IV.

Ever invoking fire from Heaven, the fireHas grasped her, unconsumeable, but framedFor all the ecstasies of suffering dire.Mother of Pride, her sanctuary shamed:Mother of Delicacy, and made a markFor outrage: Mother of Luxury, stripped stark:Mother of Heroes, bondsmen: thro' the rains,Across her boundaries, lo the league-long chains!Fond Mother of her martial youth; they pass,Are spectres in her sight, are mown as grass!Mother of Honour, and dishonoured: MotherOf Glory, she condemned to crown with baysHer victor, and be fountain of his praise.Is there another curse? There is another:Compassionate her madness: is she notMother of Reason? she that sees them mownLike grass, her young ones! Yea, in the low groanAnd under the fixed thunder of this hourWhich holds the animate world in one foul blotTranced circumambient while relentless PowerBeaks at her heart and claws her limbs down-thrown,She, with the plunging lightnings overshot,With madness for an armour against pain,With milkless breasts for little ones athirst,And round her all her noblest dying in vain,Mother of Reason is she, trebly cursed,To feel, to see, to justify the blow;Chamber to chamber of her sequent brainGives answer of the cause of her great woe,Inexorably echoing thro' the vaults,''Tis thus they reap in blood, in blood who sow:'This is the sum of self-absolvëd faults.'Doubt not that thro' her grief, with sight supreme,Thro' her delirium and despair's last dream,Thro' pride, thro' bright illusion and the broodBewildering of her various Motherhood,The high strong light within her, tho' she bleeds,Traces the letters of returned misdeeds.She sees what seed long sown, ripened of late,Bears this fierce crop; and she discerns her fateFrom origin to agony, and onAs far as the wave washes long and wanOff one disastrous impulse: for of wavesOur life is, and our deeds are pregnant gravesBlown rolling to the sunset from the dawn.

Ever invoking fire from Heaven, the fire

Has grasped her, unconsumeable, but framed

For all the ecstasies of suffering dire.

Mother of Pride, her sanctuary shamed:

Mother of Delicacy, and made a mark

For outrage: Mother of Luxury, stripped stark:

Mother of Heroes, bondsmen: thro' the rains,

Across her boundaries, lo the league-long chains!

Fond Mother of her martial youth; they pass,

Are spectres in her sight, are mown as grass!

Mother of Honour, and dishonoured: Mother

Of Glory, she condemned to crown with bays

Her victor, and be fountain of his praise.

Is there another curse? There is another:

Compassionate her madness: is she not

Mother of Reason? she that sees them mown

Like grass, her young ones! Yea, in the low groan

And under the fixed thunder of this hour

Which holds the animate world in one foul blot

Tranced circumambient while relentless Power

Beaks at her heart and claws her limbs down-thrown,

She, with the plunging lightnings overshot,

With madness for an armour against pain,

With milkless breasts for little ones athirst,

And round her all her noblest dying in vain,

Mother of Reason is she, trebly cursed,

To feel, to see, to justify the blow;

Chamber to chamber of her sequent brain

Gives answer of the cause of her great woe,

Inexorably echoing thro' the vaults,

''Tis thus they reap in blood, in blood who sow:

'This is the sum of self-absolvëd faults.'

Doubt not that thro' her grief, with sight supreme,

Thro' her delirium and despair's last dream,

Thro' pride, thro' bright illusion and the brood

Bewildering of her various Motherhood,

The high strong light within her, tho' she bleeds,

Traces the letters of returned misdeeds.

She sees what seed long sown, ripened of late,

Bears this fierce crop; and she discerns her fate

From origin to agony, and on

As far as the wave washes long and wan

Off one disastrous impulse: for of waves

Our life is, and our deeds are pregnant graves

Blown rolling to the sunset from the dawn.

Ah, what a dawn of splendour, when her sowersWent forth and bent the necks of populations,And of their terrors and humiliationsWove her the starry wreath that earthward lowersNow in the figure of a burning yoke!Her legions traversed North and South and East,Of triumph they enjoyed the glutton's feast:They grafted the green sprig, they lopped the oak.They caught by the beard the tempests, by the scalpThe icy precipices, and clove sheer throughThe heart of horror of the pinnacled Alp,Emerging not as men whom mortals knew.They were the earthquake and the hurricane,The lightnings and the locusts, plagues of blight,Plagues of the revel: they were Deluge rain,And dreaded Conflagration; lawless Might.Death writes a reeling line along the snows,Where under frozen mists they may be tracked,Who men and elements provoked to foes,And Gods: they were of God and Beast compact:Abhorred of all. Yet, how they sucked the teatsOf Carnage, thirsty issue of their dam,Whose eagles, angrier than their oriflamme,Flushed the vext earth with blood, green earth forgets.The gay young generations mask her grief;Where bled her children hangs the loaded sheaf.Forgetful is green earth; the Gods aloneRemember everlastingly: they strikeRemorselessly, and ever like for like.By their great memories the Gods are known.

Ah, what a dawn of splendour, when her sowers

Went forth and bent the necks of populations,

And of their terrors and humiliations

Wove her the starry wreath that earthward lowers

Now in the figure of a burning yoke!

Her legions traversed North and South and East,

Of triumph they enjoyed the glutton's feast:

They grafted the green sprig, they lopped the oak.

They caught by the beard the tempests, by the scalp

The icy precipices, and clove sheer through

The heart of horror of the pinnacled Alp,

Emerging not as men whom mortals knew.

They were the earthquake and the hurricane,

The lightnings and the locusts, plagues of blight,

Plagues of the revel: they were Deluge rain,

And dreaded Conflagration; lawless Might.

Death writes a reeling line along the snows,

Where under frozen mists they may be tracked,

Who men and elements provoked to foes,

And Gods: they were of God and Beast compact:

Abhorred of all. Yet, how they sucked the teats

Of Carnage, thirsty issue of their dam,

Whose eagles, angrier than their oriflamme,

Flushed the vext earth with blood, green earth forgets.

The gay young generations mask her grief;

Where bled her children hangs the loaded sheaf.

Forgetful is green earth; the Gods alone

Remember everlastingly: they strike

Remorselessly, and ever like for like.

By their great memories the Gods are known.

VI.

They are with her now, and in her ears, and known.'Tis they that cast her to the dust for Strength,Their slave, to feed on her fair body's length,That once the sweetest and the proudest shone;Scoring for hideous dismembermentHer limbs, as were the anguish-taking breathGone out of her in the insufferable descentFrom her high chieftainship; as were she death,Who hears a voice of justice, feels the knifeOf torture, drinks all ignominy of life.They are with her, and the painful Gods might weep,If ever rain of tears came out of heavenTo flatter Weakness and bid Conscience sleep,Viewing the woe of this Immortal, drivenFor the soul's life to drain the maddening cupOf her own children's blood implacably:Unsparing even as they to furrow upThe yellow land to likeness of a sea:The bountiful fair land of vine and grain,Of wit and grace and ardour, and strong roots,Fruits perishable, imperishable fruits;Furrowed to likeness of the dim grey mainBehind the black obliterating cyclone.

They are with her now, and in her ears, and known.

'Tis they that cast her to the dust for Strength,

Their slave, to feed on her fair body's length,

That once the sweetest and the proudest shone;

Scoring for hideous dismemberment

Her limbs, as were the anguish-taking breath

Gone out of her in the insufferable descent

From her high chieftainship; as were she death,

Who hears a voice of justice, feels the knife

Of torture, drinks all ignominy of life.

They are with her, and the painful Gods might weep,

If ever rain of tears came out of heaven

To flatter Weakness and bid Conscience sleep,

Viewing the woe of this Immortal, driven

For the soul's life to drain the maddening cup

Of her own children's blood implacably:

Unsparing even as they to furrow up

The yellow land to likeness of a sea:

The bountiful fair land of vine and grain,

Of wit and grace and ardour, and strong roots,

Fruits perishable, imperishable fruits;

Furrowed to likeness of the dim grey main

Behind the black obliterating cyclone.

VII.

Behold, the Gods are with her, and are known.Whom they abandon misery persecutesNo more: them half-eyed apathy may loanThe happiness of pitiable brutes.Whom the just Gods abandon have no light,No ruthless light of introspective eyesThat in the midst of misery scrutinizeThe heart and its iniquities outright.They rest, they smile and rest; have earned perchanceOf ancient service quiet for a term;Quiet of old men dropping to the worm;And so goes out the soul. But not of France.She cries for grief, and to the Gods she cries,For fearfully their loosened hands chastize,And icily they watch the rod's caressRavage her flesh from scourges merciless,But she, inveterate of brain, discernsThat Pity has as little place as JoyAmong their roll of gifts; for Strength she yearns,For Strength, her idol once, too long her toy.Lo, Strength is of the plain root-Virtues born:Strength shall ye gain by service, prove in scorn,Train by endurance, by devotion shape.Strength is not won by miracle or rape.It is the offspring of the modest years,The gift of sire to son, thro' those firm lawsWhich we name Gods; which are the righteous cause,The cause of man, and manhood's ministers.Could France accept the fables of her priests,Who blest her banners in this game of beasts,And now bid hope that heaven will intercedeTo violate its laws in her sore need,She would find comfort in their opiates:Mother of Reason! can she cheat the Fates?Would she, the champion of the open mind,The Omnipotent's prime gift—the gift of growth—Consent even for a night-time to be blind,And sink her soul on the delusive sloth,For fruits ethereal and material, both,In peril of her place among mankind?The Mother of the many Laughters mightCall one poor shade of laughter in the lightOf her unwavering lamp to mark what thingsThe world puts faith in, careless of the truth:What silly puppet-bodies danced on strings,Attached by credence, we appear in sooth,Demanding intercession, direct aid,When the whole tragic tale hangs on a broken blade!

Behold, the Gods are with her, and are known.

Whom they abandon misery persecutes

No more: them half-eyed apathy may loan

The happiness of pitiable brutes.

Whom the just Gods abandon have no light,

No ruthless light of introspective eyes

That in the midst of misery scrutinize

The heart and its iniquities outright.

They rest, they smile and rest; have earned perchance

Of ancient service quiet for a term;

Quiet of old men dropping to the worm;

And so goes out the soul. But not of France.

She cries for grief, and to the Gods she cries,

For fearfully their loosened hands chastize,

And icily they watch the rod's caress

Ravage her flesh from scourges merciless,

But she, inveterate of brain, discerns

That Pity has as little place as Joy

Among their roll of gifts; for Strength she yearns,

For Strength, her idol once, too long her toy.

Lo, Strength is of the plain root-Virtues born:

Strength shall ye gain by service, prove in scorn,

Train by endurance, by devotion shape.

Strength is not won by miracle or rape.

It is the offspring of the modest years,

The gift of sire to son, thro' those firm laws

Which we name Gods; which are the righteous cause,

The cause of man, and manhood's ministers.

Could France accept the fables of her priests,

Who blest her banners in this game of beasts,

And now bid hope that heaven will intercede

To violate its laws in her sore need,

She would find comfort in their opiates:

Mother of Reason! can she cheat the Fates?

Would she, the champion of the open mind,

The Omnipotent's prime gift—the gift of growth—

Consent even for a night-time to be blind,

And sink her soul on the delusive sloth,

For fruits ethereal and material, both,

In peril of her place among mankind?

The Mother of the many Laughters might

Call one poor shade of laughter in the light

Of her unwavering lamp to mark what things

The world puts faith in, careless of the truth:

What silly puppet-bodies danced on strings,

Attached by credence, we appear in sooth,

Demanding intercession, direct aid,

When the whole tragic tale hangs on a broken blade!

She swung the sword for centuries; in a dayIt slipped her, like a stream cut off from source.She struck a feeble hand, and tried to pray,Clamoured of treachery, and had recourseTo drunken outcries in her dream that ForceNeeded but hear her shouting to obey.Was she not formed to conquer? The bright plumesOf crested vanity shed graceful nods:Transcendent in her foundries, Arts and looms,Had France to fear the vengeance of the Gods?Her faith was on her battle-roll of namesSheathed in the records of old war; with danceAnd song she thrilled her warriors and her dames,Embracing her Dishonourer: gave him FranceFrom head to foot, France present and to come,So she might hear the trumpet and the drum—Bellona and Bacchante! rushing forthOn yon stout marching Schoolmen of the North.

She swung the sword for centuries; in a day

It slipped her, like a stream cut off from source.

She struck a feeble hand, and tried to pray,

Clamoured of treachery, and had recourse

To drunken outcries in her dream that Force

Needed but hear her shouting to obey.

Was she not formed to conquer? The bright plumes

Of crested vanity shed graceful nods:

Transcendent in her foundries, Arts and looms,

Had France to fear the vengeance of the Gods?

Her faith was on her battle-roll of names

Sheathed in the records of old war; with dance

And song she thrilled her warriors and her dames,

Embracing her Dishonourer: gave him France

From head to foot, France present and to come,

So she might hear the trumpet and the drum—

Bellona and Bacchante! rushing forth

On yon stout marching Schoolmen of the North.

Inveterate of brain, well knows she whyStrength failed her, faithful to himself the first:Her dream is done, and she can read the sky,And she can take into her heart the worstCalamity to drug the shameful thoughtOf days that made her as the man she served,A name of terror, but a thing unnerved:Buying the trickster, by the trickster bought,She for dominion, he to patch a throne.

Inveterate of brain, well knows she why

Strength failed her, faithful to himself the first:

Her dream is done, and she can read the sky,

And she can take into her heart the worst

Calamity to drug the shameful thought

Of days that made her as the man she served,

A name of terror, but a thing unnerved:

Buying the trickster, by the trickster bought,

She for dominion, he to patch a throne.

VIII.

Henceforth of her the Gods are known,Open to them her breast is laid.Inveterate of brain, heart-valiant,Never did fairer creature pantBefore the altar and the blade!

Henceforth of her the Gods are known,

Open to them her breast is laid.

Inveterate of brain, heart-valiant,

Never did fairer creature pant

Before the altar and the blade!

IX.

Swift fall the blows, and men upbraid,And friends give echo blunt and cold,The echo of the forest to the axe.Within her are the fires that waxFor resurrection from the mould.

Swift fall the blows, and men upbraid,

And friends give echo blunt and cold,

The echo of the forest to the axe.

Within her are the fires that wax

For resurrection from the mould.

She snatched at heaven's flame of old,And kindled nations: she was weak:Frail sister of her heroic prototype,The Man; for sacrifice unripe,She too must fill a Vulture's beak.Deride the vanquished, and acclaimThe conqueror, who stains her fame,Still the Gods love her, for that of high aimIs this good France, the bleeding thing they stripe.

She snatched at heaven's flame of old,

And kindled nations: she was weak:

Frail sister of her heroic prototype,

The Man; for sacrifice unripe,

She too must fill a Vulture's beak.

Deride the vanquished, and acclaim

The conqueror, who stains her fame,

Still the Gods love her, for that of high aim

Is this good France, the bleeding thing they stripe.

XI.

She shall rise worthier of her prototypeThro' her abasement deep; the pain that runsFrom nerve to nerve some victory achieves.They lie like circle-strewn soaked Autumn-leavesWhich stain the forest scarlet, her fair sons!And of their death her life is: of their bloodFrom many streams now urging to a flood,No more divided, France shall rise afresh.Of them she learns the lesson of the flesh:—The lesson writ in red since first Time ranA hunter hunting down the beast in man:That till the chasing out of its last vice,The flesh was fashioned but for sacrifice.

She shall rise worthier of her prototype

Thro' her abasement deep; the pain that runs

From nerve to nerve some victory achieves.

They lie like circle-strewn soaked Autumn-leaves

Which stain the forest scarlet, her fair sons!

And of their death her life is: of their blood

From many streams now urging to a flood,

No more divided, France shall rise afresh.

Of them she learns the lesson of the flesh:—

The lesson writ in red since first Time ran

A hunter hunting down the beast in man:

That till the chasing out of its last vice,

The flesh was fashioned but for sacrifice.

Immortal Mother of a mortal host!Thou suffering of the wounds that will not slay,Wounds that bring death but take not life away!—Stand fast and hearken while thy victors boast:Hearken, and loathe that music evermore.Slip loose thy garments woven of pride and shame:The torture lurks in them, with them the blameShall pass to leave thee purer than before.Undo thy jewels, thinking whence they came,For what, and of the abominable nameOf her who in imperial beauty wore.

Immortal Mother of a mortal host!

Thou suffering of the wounds that will not slay,

Wounds that bring death but take not life away!—

Stand fast and hearken while thy victors boast:

Hearken, and loathe that music evermore.

Slip loose thy garments woven of pride and shame:

The torture lurks in them, with them the blame

Shall pass to leave thee purer than before.

Undo thy jewels, thinking whence they came,

For what, and of the abominable name

Of her who in imperial beauty wore.

O Mother of a fated fleeting hostConceived in the past days of sin, and bornHeirs of disease and arrogance and scorn,Surrender, yield the weight of thy great ghost,Like wings on air, to what the heavens proclaimWith trumpets from the multitudinous moundsWhere peace has filled the hearing of thy sons:Albeit a pang of dissolution roundsEach new discernment of the undying ones,Do thou stoop to these graves here scattered wideAlong thy fields, as sunless billows roll;These ashes have the lesson for the soul.'Die to thy Vanity, and strain thy Pride,Strip off thy Luxury: that thou may'st live,Die to thyself,' they say, 'as we have diedFrom dear existence, and the foe forgive,Nor pray for aught save in our little spaceTo warm good seed to greet the fair earth's face.'O Mother! take their counsel, and so shallThe broader world breathe in on this thy home,Light clear for thee the counter-changing dome,Strength give thee, like an ocean's vast expanseOff mountain cliffs, the generations all,Not whirling in their narrow rings of foam,But as a river forward. Soaring France!Now is Humanity on trial in thee:Now may'st thou gather humankind in fee:Now prove that Reason is a quenchless scroll;Make of calamity thine aureole,And bleeding lead us thro' the troubles of the sea.

O Mother of a fated fleeting host

Conceived in the past days of sin, and born

Heirs of disease and arrogance and scorn,

Surrender, yield the weight of thy great ghost,

Like wings on air, to what the heavens proclaim

With trumpets from the multitudinous mounds

Where peace has filled the hearing of thy sons:

Albeit a pang of dissolution rounds

Each new discernment of the undying ones,

Do thou stoop to these graves here scattered wide

Along thy fields, as sunless billows roll;

These ashes have the lesson for the soul.

'Die to thy Vanity, and strain thy Pride,

Strip off thy Luxury: that thou may'st live,

Die to thyself,' they say, 'as we have died

From dear existence, and the foe forgive,

Nor pray for aught save in our little space

To warm good seed to greet the fair earth's face.'

O Mother! take their counsel, and so shall

The broader world breathe in on this thy home,

Light clear for thee the counter-changing dome,

Strength give thee, like an ocean's vast expanse

Off mountain cliffs, the generations all,

Not whirling in their narrow rings of foam,

But as a river forward. Soaring France!

Now is Humanity on trial in thee:

Now may'st thou gather humankind in fee:

Now prove that Reason is a quenchless scroll;

Make of calamity thine aureole,

And bleeding lead us thro' the troubles of the sea.

I.Men the Angels eyed;And here they were wild waves,And there as marsh descried.Men the Angels eyed,And liked the picture bestWhere they were greenly dressedIn brotherhood of graves.II.Man the Angels marked:He led a host through murk,On fearful seas embarked,Man the Angels marked;To think without a nay,That he was good as they,And help him at his work.III.Man and Angels, yeA sluggish fen shall drain,Shall quell a warring sea.Man and Angels, ye,Whom stain of strife befouls,A light to kindle soulsBear radiant in the stain.

Men the Angels eyed;And here they were wild waves,And there as marsh descried.Men the Angels eyed,And liked the picture bestWhere they were greenly dressedIn brotherhood of graves.

Men the Angels eyed;

And here they were wild waves,

And there as marsh descried.

Men the Angels eyed,

And liked the picture best

Where they were greenly dressed

In brotherhood of graves.

II.

Man the Angels marked:He led a host through murk,On fearful seas embarked,Man the Angels marked;To think without a nay,That he was good as they,And help him at his work.

Man the Angels marked:

He led a host through murk,

On fearful seas embarked,

Man the Angels marked;

To think without a nay,

That he was good as they,

And help him at his work.

III.

Man and Angels, yeA sluggish fen shall drain,Shall quell a warring sea.Man and Angels, ye,Whom stain of strife befouls,A light to kindle soulsBear radiant in the stain.

Man and Angels, ye

A sluggish fen shall drain,

Shall quell a warring sea.

Man and Angels, ye,

Whom stain of strife befouls,

A light to kindle souls

Bear radiant in the stain.

I.Young captain of a crazy bark!O tameless heart in battered frame!Thy sailing orders have a mark,And hers is not the name.II.For action all thine iron clanksIn cravings for a splendid prize;Again to race or bump thy planksWith any flag that flies.III.Consult them; they are eloquentFor senses not inebriate.They trust thee on the star intent,That leads to land their freight.IV.And they have known thee high peruseThe heavens, and deep the earth, till thouDidst into the flushed circle cruiseWhere reason quits the brow.V.Thou animatest ancient tales,To prove our world of linear seed:Thy very virtue now assails,A tempter to mislead.VI.But thou hast answer: I am I;My passion hallows, bids command:And she is gracious, she is nigh:One motion of the hand!VII.It will suffice; a whirly tuneThese winds will pipe, and thou performThe nodded part of pantaloonIn thy created storm.VIII.Admires thee Nature with much pride;She clasps thee for a gift of morn,Till thou art set against the tide,And then beware her scorn.IX.Sad issue, should that strife befallBetween thy mortal ship and thee!It writes the melancholy scrawlOf wreckage over sea.X.This lady of the luting tongue,The flash in darkness, billow's grace,For thee the worship; for the youngIn muscle the embrace.XI.Soar on thy manhood clear from thoseWhose toothless Winter claws at May,And take her as the vein of roseAthwart an evening grey.

Young captain of a crazy bark!O tameless heart in battered frame!Thy sailing orders have a mark,And hers is not the name.

Young captain of a crazy bark!

O tameless heart in battered frame!

Thy sailing orders have a mark,

And hers is not the name.

II.

For action all thine iron clanksIn cravings for a splendid prize;Again to race or bump thy planksWith any flag that flies.

For action all thine iron clanks

In cravings for a splendid prize;

Again to race or bump thy planks

With any flag that flies.

III.

Consult them; they are eloquentFor senses not inebriate.They trust thee on the star intent,That leads to land their freight.

Consult them; they are eloquent

For senses not inebriate.

They trust thee on the star intent,

That leads to land their freight.

IV.

And they have known thee high peruseThe heavens, and deep the earth, till thouDidst into the flushed circle cruiseWhere reason quits the brow.

And they have known thee high peruse

The heavens, and deep the earth, till thou

Didst into the flushed circle cruise

Where reason quits the brow.

Thou animatest ancient tales,To prove our world of linear seed:Thy very virtue now assails,A tempter to mislead.

Thou animatest ancient tales,

To prove our world of linear seed:

Thy very virtue now assails,

A tempter to mislead.

VI.

But thou hast answer: I am I;My passion hallows, bids command:And she is gracious, she is nigh:One motion of the hand!

But thou hast answer: I am I;

My passion hallows, bids command:

And she is gracious, she is nigh:

One motion of the hand!

VII.

It will suffice; a whirly tuneThese winds will pipe, and thou performThe nodded part of pantaloonIn thy created storm.

It will suffice; a whirly tune

These winds will pipe, and thou perform

The nodded part of pantaloon

In thy created storm.

VIII.

Admires thee Nature with much pride;She clasps thee for a gift of morn,Till thou art set against the tide,And then beware her scorn.

Admires thee Nature with much pride;

She clasps thee for a gift of morn,

Till thou art set against the tide,

And then beware her scorn.

IX.

Sad issue, should that strife befallBetween thy mortal ship and thee!It writes the melancholy scrawlOf wreckage over sea.

Sad issue, should that strife befall

Between thy mortal ship and thee!

It writes the melancholy scrawl

Of wreckage over sea.

This lady of the luting tongue,The flash in darkness, billow's grace,For thee the worship; for the youngIn muscle the embrace.

This lady of the luting tongue,

The flash in darkness, billow's grace,

For thee the worship; for the young

In muscle the embrace.

XI.

Soar on thy manhood clear from thoseWhose toothless Winter claws at May,And take her as the vein of roseAthwart an evening grey.

Soar on thy manhood clear from those

Whose toothless Winter claws at May,

And take her as the vein of rose

Athwart an evening grey.

I.How died Melissa none dares shape in words.A woman who is wife despotic lordsCount faggot at the question, Shall she live!Her son, because his brows were black of her,Runs barking for his bread, a fugitive,And Corinth frowns on them that feed the cur.II.There is no Corinth save the whip and curbOf Corinth, high Periander; the superbIn magnanimity, in rule severe.Up on his marble fortress-tower he sits,The city under him; a white yoked steer,That bears his heart for pulse, his head for wits.III.Bloom of the generous fires of his fair SpringStill coloured him when men forbore to sting;Admiring meekly where the ordered seedsOf his good sovereignty showed gardens trim;And owning that the hoe he struck at weedsWas author of the flowers raised face to him.IV.His Corinth, to each mood subservientIn homage, made he as an instrumentTo yield him music with scarce touch of stops.He breathed, it piped; he moved, it rose to fly:At whiles a bloodhorse racing till it drops;At whiles a crouching dog, on him all eye.V.His wisdom men acknowledged; only one,The creature, issue of him, Lycophron,That rebel with his mother in his brows,Contested: such an infamous would foulPirene! Little heed where he might houseThe prince gave, hearing: so the fox, the owl!VI.To prove the Gods benignant to his rule,The years, which fasten rigid whom they cool,Reviewing, saw him hold the seat of power.A grey one asked: Who next? nor answer had:One greyer pointed on the pallid hourTo come: a river dried of waters glad.VII.For which of his male issue promised gripTo stride yon people, with the curb and whip?This Lycophron! he sole, the father like,Fired prospect of a line in one strong tide,By right of mastery; stern will to strike;Pride to support the stroke: yea, Godlike pride!VIII.Himself the prince beheld a failing fount.His line stretched back unto its holy mount:The thirsty onward waved for him no sign.Then stood before his vision that hard son.The seizure of a passion for his lineImpelled him to the path of Lycophron.IX.The youth was tossing pebbles in the sea;A figure shunned along the busy quay,Perforce of the harsh edict for who daredAddress him outcast. Naming it, he crossedHis father's look with look that proved them pairedFor stiffness, and another pebble tossed.X.An exile to the Island ere nightfallHe passed from sight, from the hushed mouths of all.It had resemblance to a death: and on,Against a coast where sapphire shattered white,The seasons rolled like troops of billows blownTo spraymist. The prince gazed on capping night.XI.Deaf Age spake in his ear with shouts: Thy son!Deep from his heart Life raved of work not done.He heard historic echoes moan his name,As of the prince in whom the race had pause;Till Tyranny paternity became,And him he hated loved he for the cause.XII.Not Lycophron the exile now appeared,But young Periander, from the shadow cleared,That haunted his rebellious brows. The princeGrew bright for him; saw youth, if seeming loth,Return: and of pure pardon to convince,Despatched the messenger most dear with both.XIII.His daughter, from the exile's Island home,Wrote, as a flight of halcyons o'er the foam,Sweet words: her brother to his father bowed;Accepted his peace-offering, and rejoiced.To bring him back a prince the father vowed,Commanded man the oars, the white sails hoist.XIV.He waved the fleet to strain its westward wayOn to the sea-hued hills that crown the bay:Soil of those hospitable islandersWhom now his heart, for honour to his blood,Thanked. They should learn what boons a prince confersWhen happiness enjoins him gratitude!XV.In watch upon the offing, worn with hasteTo see his youth revived, and, close embraced,Pardon who had subdued him, who had gainedSurely the stoutest battle between twoSince Titan pierced by young Apollo stainedEarth's breast, the prince looked forth, himself looked through.XVI.Errors aforetime unperceived were bared,To be by his young masterful repaired:Renewed his great ideas gone to smoke;His policy confirmed amid the surgeOf States and people fretting at his yoke.And lo, the fleet brown-flocked on the sea-verge!XVII.Oars pulled: they streamed in harbour; without cheerFor welcome shadowed round the heaving bier.They, whose approach in such rare pomp and stressOf numbers the free islanders dismayedAt Tyranny come masking to oppress,Found Lycophron this breathless, this lone-laid.XVIII.Who smote the man thrown open to young joy?The image of the mother of his boyCame forth from his unwary breast in wreaths,With eyes. And shall a woman, that extinct,Smite out of dust the Powerful who breathes?Her loved the son; her served; they lay close-linked!XIX.Dead was he, and demanding earth. DemandSharper for vengeance of an instant hand,The Tyrant in the father heard him cry,And raged a plague; to prove on free HellenesHow prompt the Tyrant for the Persian dye;How black his Gods behind their marble screens.

How died Melissa none dares shape in words.A woman who is wife despotic lordsCount faggot at the question, Shall she live!Her son, because his brows were black of her,Runs barking for his bread, a fugitive,And Corinth frowns on them that feed the cur.

How died Melissa none dares shape in words.

A woman who is wife despotic lords

Count faggot at the question, Shall she live!

Her son, because his brows were black of her,

Runs barking for his bread, a fugitive,

And Corinth frowns on them that feed the cur.

II.

There is no Corinth save the whip and curbOf Corinth, high Periander; the superbIn magnanimity, in rule severe.Up on his marble fortress-tower he sits,The city under him; a white yoked steer,That bears his heart for pulse, his head for wits.

There is no Corinth save the whip and curb

Of Corinth, high Periander; the superb

In magnanimity, in rule severe.

Up on his marble fortress-tower he sits,

The city under him; a white yoked steer,

That bears his heart for pulse, his head for wits.

III.

Bloom of the generous fires of his fair SpringStill coloured him when men forbore to sting;Admiring meekly where the ordered seedsOf his good sovereignty showed gardens trim;And owning that the hoe he struck at weedsWas author of the flowers raised face to him.

Bloom of the generous fires of his fair Spring

Still coloured him when men forbore to sting;

Admiring meekly where the ordered seeds

Of his good sovereignty showed gardens trim;

And owning that the hoe he struck at weeds

Was author of the flowers raised face to him.

IV.

His Corinth, to each mood subservientIn homage, made he as an instrumentTo yield him music with scarce touch of stops.He breathed, it piped; he moved, it rose to fly:At whiles a bloodhorse racing till it drops;At whiles a crouching dog, on him all eye.

His Corinth, to each mood subservient

In homage, made he as an instrument

To yield him music with scarce touch of stops.

He breathed, it piped; he moved, it rose to fly:

At whiles a bloodhorse racing till it drops;

At whiles a crouching dog, on him all eye.

His wisdom men acknowledged; only one,The creature, issue of him, Lycophron,That rebel with his mother in his brows,Contested: such an infamous would foulPirene! Little heed where he might houseThe prince gave, hearing: so the fox, the owl!

His wisdom men acknowledged; only one,

The creature, issue of him, Lycophron,

That rebel with his mother in his brows,

Contested: such an infamous would foul

Pirene! Little heed where he might house

The prince gave, hearing: so the fox, the owl!

VI.

To prove the Gods benignant to his rule,The years, which fasten rigid whom they cool,Reviewing, saw him hold the seat of power.A grey one asked: Who next? nor answer had:One greyer pointed on the pallid hourTo come: a river dried of waters glad.

To prove the Gods benignant to his rule,

The years, which fasten rigid whom they cool,

Reviewing, saw him hold the seat of power.

A grey one asked: Who next? nor answer had:

One greyer pointed on the pallid hour

To come: a river dried of waters glad.

VII.

For which of his male issue promised gripTo stride yon people, with the curb and whip?This Lycophron! he sole, the father like,Fired prospect of a line in one strong tide,By right of mastery; stern will to strike;Pride to support the stroke: yea, Godlike pride!

For which of his male issue promised grip

To stride yon people, with the curb and whip?

This Lycophron! he sole, the father like,

Fired prospect of a line in one strong tide,

By right of mastery; stern will to strike;

Pride to support the stroke: yea, Godlike pride!

VIII.

Himself the prince beheld a failing fount.His line stretched back unto its holy mount:The thirsty onward waved for him no sign.Then stood before his vision that hard son.The seizure of a passion for his lineImpelled him to the path of Lycophron.

Himself the prince beheld a failing fount.

His line stretched back unto its holy mount:

The thirsty onward waved for him no sign.

Then stood before his vision that hard son.

The seizure of a passion for his line

Impelled him to the path of Lycophron.

IX.

The youth was tossing pebbles in the sea;A figure shunned along the busy quay,Perforce of the harsh edict for who daredAddress him outcast. Naming it, he crossedHis father's look with look that proved them pairedFor stiffness, and another pebble tossed.

The youth was tossing pebbles in the sea;

A figure shunned along the busy quay,

Perforce of the harsh edict for who dared

Address him outcast. Naming it, he crossed

His father's look with look that proved them paired

For stiffness, and another pebble tossed.

An exile to the Island ere nightfallHe passed from sight, from the hushed mouths of all.It had resemblance to a death: and on,Against a coast where sapphire shattered white,The seasons rolled like troops of billows blownTo spraymist. The prince gazed on capping night.

An exile to the Island ere nightfall

He passed from sight, from the hushed mouths of all.

It had resemblance to a death: and on,

Against a coast where sapphire shattered white,

The seasons rolled like troops of billows blown

To spraymist. The prince gazed on capping night.

XI.

Deaf Age spake in his ear with shouts: Thy son!Deep from his heart Life raved of work not done.He heard historic echoes moan his name,As of the prince in whom the race had pause;Till Tyranny paternity became,And him he hated loved he for the cause.

Deaf Age spake in his ear with shouts: Thy son!

Deep from his heart Life raved of work not done.

He heard historic echoes moan his name,

As of the prince in whom the race had pause;

Till Tyranny paternity became,

And him he hated loved he for the cause.

XII.

Not Lycophron the exile now appeared,But young Periander, from the shadow cleared,That haunted his rebellious brows. The princeGrew bright for him; saw youth, if seeming loth,Return: and of pure pardon to convince,Despatched the messenger most dear with both.

Not Lycophron the exile now appeared,

But young Periander, from the shadow cleared,

That haunted his rebellious brows. The prince

Grew bright for him; saw youth, if seeming loth,

Return: and of pure pardon to convince,

Despatched the messenger most dear with both.

XIII.

His daughter, from the exile's Island home,Wrote, as a flight of halcyons o'er the foam,Sweet words: her brother to his father bowed;Accepted his peace-offering, and rejoiced.To bring him back a prince the father vowed,Commanded man the oars, the white sails hoist.

His daughter, from the exile's Island home,

Wrote, as a flight of halcyons o'er the foam,

Sweet words: her brother to his father bowed;

Accepted his peace-offering, and rejoiced.

To bring him back a prince the father vowed,

Commanded man the oars, the white sails hoist.

XIV.

He waved the fleet to strain its westward wayOn to the sea-hued hills that crown the bay:Soil of those hospitable islandersWhom now his heart, for honour to his blood,Thanked. They should learn what boons a prince confersWhen happiness enjoins him gratitude!

He waved the fleet to strain its westward way

On to the sea-hued hills that crown the bay:

Soil of those hospitable islanders

Whom now his heart, for honour to his blood,

Thanked. They should learn what boons a prince confers

When happiness enjoins him gratitude!

XV.

In watch upon the offing, worn with hasteTo see his youth revived, and, close embraced,Pardon who had subdued him, who had gainedSurely the stoutest battle between twoSince Titan pierced by young Apollo stainedEarth's breast, the prince looked forth, himself looked through.

In watch upon the offing, worn with haste

To see his youth revived, and, close embraced,

Pardon who had subdued him, who had gained

Surely the stoutest battle between two

Since Titan pierced by young Apollo stained

Earth's breast, the prince looked forth, himself looked through.

XVI.

Errors aforetime unperceived were bared,To be by his young masterful repaired:Renewed his great ideas gone to smoke;His policy confirmed amid the surgeOf States and people fretting at his yoke.And lo, the fleet brown-flocked on the sea-verge!

Errors aforetime unperceived were bared,

To be by his young masterful repaired:

Renewed his great ideas gone to smoke;

His policy confirmed amid the surge

Of States and people fretting at his yoke.

And lo, the fleet brown-flocked on the sea-verge!

XVII.

Oars pulled: they streamed in harbour; without cheerFor welcome shadowed round the heaving bier.They, whose approach in such rare pomp and stressOf numbers the free islanders dismayedAt Tyranny come masking to oppress,Found Lycophron this breathless, this lone-laid.

Oars pulled: they streamed in harbour; without cheer

For welcome shadowed round the heaving bier.

They, whose approach in such rare pomp and stress

Of numbers the free islanders dismayed

At Tyranny come masking to oppress,

Found Lycophron this breathless, this lone-laid.

XVIII.

Who smote the man thrown open to young joy?The image of the mother of his boyCame forth from his unwary breast in wreaths,With eyes. And shall a woman, that extinct,Smite out of dust the Powerful who breathes?Her loved the son; her served; they lay close-linked!

Who smote the man thrown open to young joy?

The image of the mother of his boy

Came forth from his unwary breast in wreaths,

With eyes. And shall a woman, that extinct,

Smite out of dust the Powerful who breathes?

Her loved the son; her served; they lay close-linked!

XIX.

Dead was he, and demanding earth. DemandSharper for vengeance of an instant hand,The Tyrant in the father heard him cry,And raged a plague; to prove on free HellenesHow prompt the Tyrant for the Persian dye;How black his Gods behind their marble screens.

Dead was he, and demanding earth. Demand

Sharper for vengeance of an instant hand,

The Tyrant in the father heard him cry,

And raged a plague; to prove on free Hellenes

How prompt the Tyrant for the Persian dye;

How black his Gods behind their marble screens.

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