ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN (1841 - 1901)

{Napoleon Fallen 1871}

Enter a MESSENGER.

NAPOLEON.

                                         Well, what news?

                                                                                                                                                                 44

MESSENGER.

’Tis brief and sad. The mighty Prussian chiefs,
Gathering their fiery van in silence, close
Toward the imperial City—in whose walls
Treason and Rage and Fear contend together
Like hunger-stricken wolves; and at their cry,
Echoed from Paris to the Vosges, France,
Calling her famish’d children round her knees,
Implores the trembling nations. All is still,                                          [l.viii]
Like to that silence which precedes the storm,
And shakes the forest leaves without a breath;
But surely as the vaporous storm is woven,
The German closes round the heart of France
His hurricane of lives.

                                                                                                                                                                 45

NAPOLEON (to BISHOP).

                               The Teuton thrives
Under the doom we spake of.
     (To MESSENGER)    Well, speak on!

MESSENGER.

Meantime, like kine that see the gathering clouds,
And shelter ’neath the shade of rocks and trees,
Thy timorous people fly before the sound
Of the approaching footsteps, seeking woods
For shelter, snaring conies for their food,
And sleeping like the beasts; some fare in caves,
Fearing the wholesome air, hushing the cries
Of infants lest the murderous foe should hear;
Some scatter west and south, their frighted eyes                                 46
Cast backward, with their wretched household goods;
And where these dwelt, most blest beneath thy rule,
The German legions thrive, let loose like swine
Amid the fields of harvest, in their track
Leaving the smoking ruin, and the church
Most desecrated to a sleeping-sty;—
So that the plenteous lands that rolled in gold
Round thine imperial city, lie full bare                                                 [l.ix]
To shame, to rapine, to calamity.

NAPOLEON.

O for one hour of empire, that with life
I might consume this sorrow! ’Tis a spell
By which we are subdued!

                                                                                                                                                                 47

MESSENGER.

                               Strasbourg still stands,
Stubborn as granite, but the citadel
Has fallen. Within, Famine and Horror nest,                                      [l.iii]
And rear their young on ruin.          [Exit.

Enter a MESSENGER.

NAPOLEON.

                                       How, peal on peal!
Like the agonizing clash of bells, when flame
Hath seized on some fair city. News, more news?
Dost thou too catch the common trick o’ the time,
And ring a melancholy peal?

MESSENGER.

                                           My liege,
Strasbourg still stands.

                                                                                                                                                                 48

NAPOLEON.

                                           And then?

MESSENGER.

                               Pent up in Metz,
Encircled by a river of strong lives,
Bazaine is faithful to the cause and thee,
And from his prison doth proclaim himself,
And all the host of Frenchmen at his back,
Thy liegemen to the death.

NAPOLEON.

                             Why, that last peal
Sounds somewhat blither. Well?

MESSENGER.

                             From his lone isle,
The old Italian Red-shirt in his age
Has crawl’d, tho’ sickly and infirm, to France,                                  49 [l.i]
And slowly there his leonine features breed
Hope in the timid people, who—

NAPOLEON.

                     Enough!          [Exit MESSENGER.
That tune is flat and tame.

                                       [Enter a MESSENGER.

                                       What man art thou,
On whose swart face the frenzied lightning plays,                              [l.vii]
Prophetic of the thunder on the tongue?                                            [l.viii]
Speak!

MESSENGER.

     Better I had died at Weissenburg,
Where on the bloody field I lay for dead,
Than live to bring this woe. Ungenerous France,                                50
Forgetful of thy gracious years of reign,
Pitiless as a sated harlot is
When ruin overtaketh him whose hand
Hath loaded her with gems, shameless and mad,
France, like Delilah, now betrays her lord.
The streets are drunken—from thy palace-gate
They pluck the imperial eagles, trampling them
Into the bloody mire; thy flags and pennons,
Torn from their vantage in the wind, are wrapt
In mockery round the beggar’s ragged limbs;
And thine imperial images in stone,
Dash’d from their lofty places, strew the ground
In shameful ruin. All the ragged shout,
While from the presidential seat Trochu                                            51 [l.i]
Proclaims the empire dead, and calleth up
A new Republic, in whose chairs of office
Thine enemies, scribblers and demagogues,
Simon, Gambetta, Favre, and with these                                           [l.v]
The miserable Rochefort, trembling grasp
The reins of power, unconscious of the scorn
That doth already doom them. To their feet
Come humming back, vain-drunken, all the wasps
That in thine hour of glory thou didst brush                                         [l.x]
With careless arm-sweep from thy festal cup:
Shoulder’d by mobs the pigmy Blanc declaims,
The hare-brain’d Hugo shrieks a maniac song
In concert, and the scribblers, brandishing
Their pens like valiant Lilliputians
Against the Teuton giant, frantically
Scream chorus. Coming with mock-humble eyes
To the Republic, this sham shape of straw,                                         52
This stuff’d thing of a harlot’s carnival,
The dilettante sons of Orleans, kneeling,
Proffer forsooth their swords, which, being disdain’d,
They sheathe chopfallen and with bows withdraw                             [l.v]
Back to their pictures and perfumery.

NAPOLEON.

Why, thine is news indeed! Nor do I weep
For mine own wrong, but for the woes of France,
Whose knell thou soundest. With a tongue of fire
Our enemy shall like the ant-eater
Devour these insect rulers suddenly.
(Aside) Now, may the foul fiend blacken all the air                            53
Above these Frenchmen, with revolt and fear
Darken alike the wits of friends and foes,
With swift confusion and with anarchy
Disturb their fretful councils, till at last,                                              [l.v]
Many-tongued, wild-hair’d, mad, and horrible,
With fiery eyes and naked crimson limbs,
Upriseth the old Spectre of the Red,
And as of yore uplifts the shameful knife                                            [l.ix]
To stab unhappy France; then, in her need,
Fearful and terror-stricken, France shall call
On him who gave her nineteen years of sleep—                                 [l.xii]
And he may rise again.         [Exeunt.

CHORUS.

STROPHE I.

First turning eastward thrice, and making the mystic sign,                             [note]
Wipe ye the bloody hair out of her beautiful eyne,                                       54
And cover up her face with the black fold of her dress:
Then, lastly, stooping slow, raise her with tenderness,
And follow where we lead with a melancholy tread,
Beating our baréd breasts to the deep chant of the dead;
Nor fail each man to crave in a deep voice and strong,
That God may smite those sore who did her this foul wrong;
Nor fail each man to pause and draw deep breaths of prayer,
And all for France, our murdered France, whom to the grave we bear.

                                                                                                                                                                 55

ANTI-STROPHE I.

Sons, ye are bloody-shod! Sons, ye breathe bloody breath!
Your nostrils feel, O sons, the salt sharp stench of death!
Your brethren rot afield, your children cry in the dark;
Across your sisters’ throats the butcher leaves his mark;
With shameful finger-stains upon their bosom bare,
Your dear ones lie and hide their faces in their hair;
And yet I say this night, your pangs are light and free
Beside her pangs whose dust ye carry after me.
And yet I say this night, hush up your private wrong,                                    56
Gather your wrath, my sons, in one deep breath and strong—
Curse me the Teuton butchers! Curse me son, mother, and sire!
Call to the Lord for slaughter! call to the Lord for fire!
Scream me the thunders down! cry till the lightnings spring!
And all for France, our mother France, whom we are carrying.

STROPHE II.

Last night she was a Queen!—draw back the cloak, and lo!
The pale face set in hair threaded with silver snow,
The thin close-pressëd lips, the delicate silken chin,                                     57
The round great eyes closed up, and dark, all dark, within.
Come, touch her on the cheek; come, bless her as she lies;
Come, kiss the dark lids down on the beloved eyes;
Fall’n in her hour of pride, torn from her triumph-car,
Is she not dearer still than all things earthly are?
O France! O Mother! speak. O beautiful Mother, wake!
Look on us, for we die:—we die for thy dear sake:
The slayer is at our gates—weak are our prayers and vain—
. . . Ah, God, she is not dead!—she stirs!—her eyes unclose again!

                                                                                                                                                                 58

ANTI-STROPHE II.

Sons, gather round, gather round! Sons, be of cheer, be of cheer!
Beautiful, pale as snow, she stirs upon her bier.
Ah, but she is not dead! Mother, O Mother, speak!
She rises up her height—the bright blood burns in her cheek—
See how her great eyes gleam thro’ tears of pain and shame—
See how the mighty lips tremble and quiver to flame.
She reacheth down to feel her sword, and it is there—
She holds it up to God; it gleams in the black air;
Sons, gather round, gather round! Sons, it is not too late!                            59
She turns her face to him who croucheth at the gate—
In the wild wind of war her bloodstain’d garments wave—
With bitter, bleeding heart, our France springs up as from the grave.

STROPHE III.

Set the cannon on the heights! and under
     Let the black moat gape, the black graves grow!
Now, let thunder
     Answer back the thunder of the foe!
France has torn her cerements asunder—
     France doth live, to strike the oppressor low.
Now let the smithy blaze, and the blue steel be sped;                                  60
Twist iron into guns, cast ye the fatal lead;
Drag cannon to the gate,—and let our bravest stand
Bare to the shoulder there, smoke-begrim’d, torch in hand.
Now to the winds of heaven the Flag of Stars upraise;
Let those sing martial songs who are too frail for frays.
France is uprisen again! France, the sworn slayer of Kings!
With bleeding breast and bitter heart, at the Teuton’s throat she springs.

                                                                                                                                                                 61

ANTI-STROPHE III.

Dig the trenches broad and deep! and, after,
They shall serve for foemen’s graves as well—
Let fierce laughter
     Serve the German butchers for a knell.
Fire the paths they tread! Let floor and rafter
     Blaze, till all our city is as Hell.
Now should they enter in, stand ye prepared with flame
To light the hidden mine under the city of shame.
Gather our children and wives, let them not watch or weep;
While we are striking home let them be praying deep.
They are famish’d, give them food—they are thirsty, let them drink:              62
Blood shall suffice for us, whether we rise or sink.
France is uprisen again!—how should we drink and eat,
Till, stiff in death, the Teuton snake is coil’d beneath her feet?

STROPHE IV.

Now like thunder
     Be our voice together while we cry—
Kings shall never hold our spirits under,
     Kings shall cast their crowns aside and fly.
Latin, Sclav, or Teuton, they shall wonder;
     The soul of man hath doom’d them—let them die.
We have slain Kings of old—they were our own to slay—                          63
But now we doom all Kings until the Judgment Day.
Raise ye the Flag of Stars! Tremble, O kings, and behold!
Raise ye the Flag of Man, while the knell of anarchs is toll’d!
This is a festal day for all the seed of Eve:
France shall redeem the world, and heal all hearts that grieve;
France with her sword this day shall free all human things;
With blood drain’d from her heart, our France shall write the doom of Kings.

ANTI-STROPHE IV.

Fill each loophole with a man! and finding
     Each a foe, aim slowly at the brain,
While the blinding                                                                                       64
     Lightnings flash, and the great guns refrain.
To the roofs! and while beneath the foe are winding
     Dash ye stones and missiles down like rain.
Watch for the greybeard King: to drink his blood were great.
Watch for the Cub thereto—aim at his brain full straight.
Watch most for that foul Knave, who crawls behind the Crown,
Who smiles, befooling all, with crafty eyes cast down:
Sweeter than wine indeed his damnëd blood would flow,                            [l.ix]
Curst juggler with our souls, he who hath wrought this woe.
France hath uprisen again! Let the fierce shaft be sped!                               65
Till all the foul Satanic things that flatter Kings be dead!

STROPHE V.

Send the light balloon aloft with singing,
     Let our hopes rise with it to the sky!
Let our voices like one fount upspringing
     Tell the mighty realm that hope is nigh.
See, in answer, from the distance winging,
     Back unto our feet the swift doves fly.
Read! read! yea, all is well,—yea, let our hearts be higher;
North, south, east, west, the souls of Frenchmen are as fire.
Wildly from hill to hill the blessed tidings speed!                                          66
Come from your fields, O sons! France is arisen indeed.
The reaper leaves the wheat, the workman leaves his loom.
Tho’ the black priest may frown, who heeds his look of gloom?
Flash the wild tidings forth! ring them from town to town,—
Till like a storm of scythes we rise, and the foe like wheat go down.

ANTI-STROPHE V.

See, how northward the wild heavens lighten!
     Red as blood the fierce aurora waves;
Let it bathe us strong in blood, and brighten
     Sweet with resurrection on our graves—
Lighten, lighten!
Scroll of God! unfold above and brighten!                                                  67
     Light the doom of monarchs and their slaves!
This is a day indeed—be sure that God can see.
Raise the fierce cry again, “Liberty! Liberty!”
Courage! no man dies twice, and he shall live in death,
Who for the Flag of Stars strikes with his latest breath.
Nay, not a foe shall live to tell if France be slain.
If the wild cause be lost, only the grave shall gain.
Teuton and Frank in fierce embrace shall strew the fatal sod;
And they shall live indeed who died to save their souls for God!

                                                                                                                                                                 68

Enter NAPOLEON and an OFFICER.

OFFICER.

Once in a dream, being worn and weak, I saw                                  [l.i]
A fight between a hydra and a wolf,
In which the wily thing, with fold on fold
Of luminous coils enveloping its foe,
So that it could not breathe, nor stir, nor scream,
Struck not, but shooting out its hugest head,
Coiling it backward as I twist my arm,
Poised o’er the wolf’s fierce face, and, with red fangs
Drawn and withdrawn to a horrid hissing sound.
Gazed stedfast with mesmeric orbs of fire
Into the fierce yet fascinated eyes
That watch’d them slowly closing up for doom.                                  69
E’en so it seem’d to stand of late with France
And her oppressor. But by God’s own hand,
Or by some agency well deem’d divine,
The spell is shaken. Screaming in despair
The wolf strikes at the snake, and with strong feet
Forcing the fierce head to the ground, prepares
To spring upon and rend it, though around
The lesser heads, hissing like red-hot iron
Dashed into water, stab, and stab, and stab,
With thrusts repeated swift as one can breathe,
At the lean sides that run with bitterest blood,
While still the great heart throbbeth strong and true,                           70
And still the wild face, fearless even to death,
Gleameth by fits with rage and agony.

NAPOLEON.

Is there no hope for France?

OFFICER.

                                 None. Yet I know not.
A nation thus miraculously strengthen’d,
And acting in the fiercest wrath of love,
Hath risen ere this above calamity,
And out of anguish conjured victory.                                                 [l.ix]
If strength and numbers, if the mighty hand                                        [l.x]
Of the Briareus, shall decide the day,
Then surely as the sun sets France must fall;
If love or prayer can make a miracle                                                 71
And bring an angel down to strike for her,
Then France may rise again.

NAPOLEON.

                                     Have we not proved
Her children cowards? Yea, by God! Like dogs
That rend the air with wrath upon the chain,
And being loosen’d slink before the thief,
They fail’d me—those who led and those who follow’d;
Scarce knowing friend from foe, while inch by inch
The Germans ate their ranks as a slow fire
Devoureth wind-blown wheat. I cannot trust
In France or Frenchmen.

                                                                                                                                                                 72

OFFICER.

                                           Sire—

NAPOLEON.

                                   Why dost thou hang
Thy head, old friend, and look upon the ground?
Nay, if all Frenchmen had but hearts like thine,
Then France were blest in sooth, and I, its master,
Were safe against the swords of all the world.

OFFICER.

Sire, ’twas not that I meant—my life is yours
To give or take, to blame or praise; I blush’d
Not for myself, but France.

                                                                                                                                                                 73

NAPOLEON.

                                   Then hadst thou cause
For crimson cheeks indeed.

OFFICER.

                                             Sire, as I live,
Thou wrongest her! The breast whereon we grew
Suckled no cowards. For one dizzy hour
France totter’d, and look’d back; but now, indeed,
She hath arisen to the very height
Of her great peril.

NAPOLEON.

                             ’Tis too late. She is lost.
She did betray her master, and shall die.

                                                                                                                                                                 74

OFFICER.

Not France betrayed thee, Sire; but rather those
Whom thy most noble nature, royally based
Above suspicion and perfidious fear,
Welcom’d unto thy council; not poor France,
Whose bleeding wounds speak for her loud as tongues,
Bit at the hand that raised her up so high;
Not France, but bastard Frenchmen, doubly damn’d
Alike by her who bare them, and by thee
Who fed them. These betrayed thee to thy doom,
And falling clutch’d at thine imperial crown,
Dragging it with them to the bloody dust;
But these that held her arms like bands of lead
Being torn from off her, France, unchain’d and free,                           75
Uplifts her pale front to the stars, and stands
Serene in doom and danger, and sublime
In resurrection.

NAPOLEON.

                                   How the popular taint
Corrupts the wholesome matter of thy mind!
This would be treason, friend, if we were strong—
Now ’tis less perilous: the commonest wind
Can blow its scorn upon the fallen.

OFFICER.

                                                         Sire,
Behold me on my knees, tears in mine eyes,
And sorrow in my heart. My life is thine,                                            76
My life, my heart, my soul are pledged to thine;
And trebly now doth thy calamity                                                     [l.iii]
Hold me thy slave and servant. If I pray,
’Tis that thou mayst arise, and thou shalt rise;
And if I praise our common mother, France,
Who for the moment hath forgot her lord,
’Tis that my soul rejoices for thy sake,
That, when thou comest to thine own again,
Thy realm shall be a realm regenerate,
Baptised, a fair thing worthy of thy love,
In its own blood of direful victory.

NAPOLEON.

Say’st thou?—Rise!—Friend, thou art little skilled
In reading that abstruse astrology
Whereby our cunning politicians cast                                                 77
The fate of Kings. France robed in victory,
Is France for ever lost to our great house.
France fallen, is France that with my secret hand
I may uplift again. But tell thy tale
Most freely: let thy soul beat its free wings
Before me as it lists. Come! as thou sayest,
France is no coward;—she hath at last arisen;
Nay, more—she is sublime. Proceed.

OFFICER.

                                                     My liege,
God, ere he made me thy most loving servant,
Made and baptised me, Frenchman; and my heart,
A soldier’s heart, yearns out this day in pride
To her who bare me, and both great and low                                     78
My brethren. Courage is a virtue, Sire,
Even in a wretched cause. In Strasbourg still
Old Ulrich, with his weight of seventy years,                                      [l.iv]
Starves unsubdued, while the dull enemy
Look on in wonder at such strength in woe;
Bazaine still keeps the glittering hosts at bay,
And holds them with a watchful hand and eye;
The captain of the citadel at Laon,
Soon as the foeman gather’d on his walls,
Illumed the hidden mine, and Frank and Teuton,
With that they strove for, strew’d the path in death;
From Paris to the Vosges, loud and wild,
The tocsin rings to arms, and on the fields
The fat ripe ear empties itself unreapt,                                               79
While every man whose hand can grasp a sword
Flocks to the petty standard of his town.
The many looms of the great factory
Stand silent, but the fiery moulds of clay
Are fashioning cannon, and the blinding wheels
Are sharpening steel. In every marketplace
Peasant and prince are drilling side by side;
Roused from their wine-fed torpor, changed from swine
To men, the very country burghers arm,
Nay, what is more to them than blood, bleed gold,
Bounteously, freely; I have heard that priests,
Doffing the holy cassock secretly,                                                     80
Shouting uplift the sword, and crying Christ
To aid them strike for France. Only the basest,
Only the scum, shrink now; for even women,
Catching the noble fever of the time,
Buckle the war-belts round their lovers’ waists,
And clapping hands, with mingled cries and sobs,
Urge young and old against the enemy.

NAPOLEON.

Of so much thunder may the lightning spring.
I know how France can thunder, and I have felt
How women’s tongues can urge. But what of Paris?
What of the Lutetia? How doth it bear                                              81 [l.i]
The terror and the agony?

OFFICER.

                                       Most bravely,
As doth become the glorious heart of France:
Strong, fearless, throbbing with a martial might,
Dispensing from its core the vital heat
Which filleth all the members of the land;
Tho’ even now the sharp steel pricks the skin,
To stab it in its strength.

NAPOLEON.

                                     Who holds the reins
Within the gates?

                                                                                                                                                                 82

OFFICER.

                                             Trochu.

NAPOLEON.

                         Still? Why, how long
Have the poor fools been constant? Favre also?
Gambetta? Rochefort? All these gentlemen
Still flourish? And Thiers? Hath the arch-schemer
A seat among the gods, a place of rank
With the ephemera?

OFFICER.

                                   Not so, my liege.

NAPOLEON.

Well, being seated on Olympus’ top,
What thunderbolts are France’s puny Joves
Casting abroad? Or do they sit and quake                                         83
For awe of their own voices, which in France,
As in the shifting glaciers of the Alps,
May bring the avalanche upon their heads?

OFFICER.

The men, to do them justice, use their power
Calmly and soldierly, and for a time
Forget the bitter humours of the senate
In the great common cause. Paris is strong,
And full of noble souls.

NAPOLEON.

                                       Paris must fall.

OFFICER.

Not soon, my liege—for she is belted round
And arm’d impregnable on every side.
Hunger and thirst may slay her, not the sword;                                   84
And ere the foeman’s foot is heard within,
Paris will spring upon her funeral pyre
And, boldly as an Indian widow, follow                                           [l.iv]
Freedom, her spouse, to heaven. Last week I walk’d                       [l.v]
Reading men’s faces in the silent streets,
And, as I am a soldier, saw in none
Fear or capitulation: very harlots
Cried in their shame the name of Liberty,
And, hustled from the gates, shriek’d out a curse
Upon the coming German: all was still                                              [l.xi]
And dreadful; but the citizens in silence
Drilled in the squares; on the great boulevard groups
Whisper’d together, with their faces pale
At white heat; in the silent theatre,
Dim lit by lamps, were women, wives and mothers,                           85
Silently working for their wounded sons
And husbands; in the churches, too, they sat
And wrought, while ever and anon a foot
Rung on the pavement, and with sad red eyes
They turn’d to see some armëd citizen
Kneel at his orisons or vespers. Nightly,
Ere the moon rose, the City slept like death;
Yet as a lion sleeps, with half-shut eyes,
Hearing each murmur on the weary wind,
Crouching and steady for the spring. Each dawn                               [l.xi]
I saw the country carts come rumbling in,
And the scared country-folk, with large wild eyes
And open mouths, who flock’d for shelter, bringing
Horrible tidings of the enemy,
Who had devoured their fields and happy homes.                               86
Then suddenly like a low earthquake came
The rumour that the foe was at the gates;
And climbing a cathedral roof that night,
I saw the pitch-black distance sown with fire
Gleam phosphorescent like the midnight sea,
And heard at intervals mysterious sound,                                         [l.vii]
Like far-off tempest, or the Atlantic waves                                      [l.viii]
Clashing on some great headland in a storm,
Come smother’d from afar. But, lingering yet,
I haunted the great City in disguise,
While silently the fatal rings were wound
Around about it by the Teuton hosts:
Still, as I am a soldier, saw no face
That look’d capitulation: rather saw
The knitted eyebrow and the clenchëd teeth,
The stealthy hand that fingered with the sword,
The eye that glanced as swift as hunger’s doth
Towards the battlements. Then (for a voice                                       87 [l.i]
Was raised against my life) I sought Trochu,                                     [l.ii]
Mine ancient schoolfellow and friend in arms,                                    [l.iii]
And, though his brow darkened a moment’s space,
He knew me faithful, and reached out his hand
To save me. By his secret help I found
A place in a balloon, that, in the dark                                                [l.vii]
Ere daylight, rose upon a moaning wind,
And drifted southward with the drifting clouds;
And as the white and frosty daylight grew,
And opening crimson as a rose’s leaves
The clouds to eastward parted, I beheld
The imperial City, gables, roofs, and spires,
White and fantastic as a city of dream,
Gleam orient, while the muffled drums within
Sounded réveille; then a flash and wreath                                          [l.xvi]
Of vapour broke across the outer line,
Where the back fortifications frowning rose                                        88
Ring above ring around the imperial gates,
And flash on flash succeeded with a sound
Most faint and lagging wearily behind.
Still all without the City seemed as husht
As sleep or death. But as the reddening day
Scattered the mists, the tiny villages
Loomed dim; and there were distant glimmerings,
And far-off muffled sounds: yet little there                                         [l.ix]
Showed the innumerable enemy,
Who snugly housed and canopied with stone
Lay hidden in their strength; only the watch-fire
Gleam’d here and there, only from place to place
Masses of shadow seem’d to move, and light
Was glittered dimly back from hidden steel;                                      89 [l.i]
And, woefullest sight of all, miles to the west,
Along the dark line of the foe’s advance,
On the straight rim where earth and heaven meet,
The forests blazed and to the driving clouds
Cast blood-red phantoms growing dim in day.
Meantime, like one whirl’d in a dizzy dream,
Onward we drove below the driving cloud,
And from the region of the burning fire
And smouldering hamlet rose still higher, and saw
The dim stars like to tapers burning out                                             [l.xi]
Above the region of the nether storm,
And the illimitable ether growing
Silent and dark in the deep wintry dawn.

                                                                                                                                                                 90

Enter hastily a MESSENGER.

MESSENGER.

Most weighty news, my liege, from Italy.

NAPOLEON.

Yes?

MESSENGER.

       Rome is taken. The imperial walls
Yawn where the cannon smote; in the red streets,                             [l.iv]
Romans embracing shout for Liberty;
From Florence to Messina bonfires blaze,
And rockets rise and vivas fill the air;                                               [l.vii]
And with the thunder in his aged ears,
Surrounded by his cold-eyed cardinals,
Clutching his spiritual crown more close,                                            91
Trembling with dotage, sits the grey-haired Pope,
Anathematizing in the Vatican.         [Exit.

OFFICER.

Woe to the head on whom his curse shall fall,
For in the day of judgment it shall be
Better with Sodom and Gomorrah. Wait!
This is the twilight; red will rise the dawn.

NAPOLEON.

Peace, friend; yet if it ease thy heart, speak on.
I would to God, I did believe in God
As thou dost. Twilight surely—’tis indeed
A twilight—and therein from their fair spheres
Kings shoot like stars. How many nights of late                                  92
The heavens have troubled been with fiery signs,
With characters like monstrous hieroglyphs,
And the aurora, brighter than the day
And red as blood, has burnt from west to east.                                 [l.v]

OFFICER.

I do believe the melancholy air
Is full of pain and portent.

NAPOLEON.

                                       Would to God
I had more faith in God, for in this work
I fail to trace His hand; but rather feel
The nether-shock of earthquake everywhere                                      93
Shaking old thrones and new, those rear’d on rock
As well as those on sand. All darkens yet,
And in that darkness, while with cheeks of snow
The affrighted people gaze at one another,
The Teuton still, mouthing of Deity,
Works steadfastly to some mysterious end.
My heart was never Rome’s so much as now,
Now, when she shares my cup of agony.
Agony! Is this agony? then, indeed,
All life is agony.

OFFICER.

                         Your Imperial Highness
Is suffering! Take comfort, Sire.

                                                                                                                                                                 94

NAPOLEON.

                                       It is nought—
Only a passing spasm at the heart—
’Tis my disease, comrade; ’tis my disease!
So leave me: it is late; and I would rest.

OFFICER.

God in his gracious goodness give thee health.

NAPOLEON.

Pray that He may; for am I deeply sick—                                          [l.vi]
Too sick for surgery—too sick for drugs—
Too sick for man to heal. ’Tis a complaint
Incident to our house; and of the same
Mine imperial uncle died.          [Exit Officer.
                                 France in the dust,
With the dark Spectre of the Red above her!
Rome fallen! Aye me, well may the face of heaven                             95
Burn like a fiery scroll. Had I but eyes
To read whose name is written next for doom!
The Teuton’s? O the Serpent, that has bided
His time so long, and now has stabbed so deep!
Would I might bruise his head before I die!          [Exit.

[Notes:
Alterations in the 1884 edition of The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan:
Page 44, l. viii: Looks at the trembling nations. All is still,
Page 46, l. ix: Round thy voluptuous City, lie full bare
Page 47, l. iii: Is falling. Within, Famine and Horror nest,
Page 49, l. i: Hath crawl’d, tho’ sickly and infirm, to France,
Page 49, l. vii omitted.
Page 49, l. viii omitted.
Page 51, l. i: While Trochu from the presidential seat
Page 51, l. v: Simon, Gambetta, Favre, and linked with these
Page 51, l. x: Whom in thine hour of glory thou didst brush
Page 52, l. v: They sheathe chapfallen and with bows withdraw
Page 53, l. v: Disturb their fretful counsels, till at last,
Page 53, l. ix: And as of yore lifts up the shameful knife
Page 53, l. xii: On him who gave her nineteen plenteous years—
Page 53. The Chorus section is again extensively revised. The opening section, up to ‘Strophe III’ on Page 59, is omitted and replaced by the following:

CHORUS OF SPIRITS.

Who in the name of France curses French souls this day?
How! shall the tempter curse? Silence; and turn away;
Turn we our faces hence white with a wild desire,
Westward we lift our gaze till the straining balls flash fire,
Westward we look to France, sadly we watch and mark:—
Far thro’ the pitch-black air, like breaking foam in the dark,
Cometh and goeth a light across the stricken land,
And we hear a distant voice like the wash of waves on the sand.

Page 59, following l. iv, ‘STROPHE III.’ is replaced by ‘VOICES.’ And after l. x, there is the following revision:

CHORUS.

O hark! O hark! a voice arises wild and strong,
Loud as a bell that rings alarm it lifts the song.
See! see! the dark is lit, fire upon fire upsprings,
Loudly from town to town the fiery tiding rings.
Now the red smithies blaze and the blue steel is sped,
They twist bright steel for guns, they cast the fatal lead;
Cannon is drawn to the gate,—and lo, the bravest stand
Bare to the shoulder there, smoke-begrim’d, fuse in hand;
Now to the winds of heaven the Flag of Stars they raise,
While those sing martial songs who are too frail for frays.
France is uprisen again! France the sworn slayer of Kings!
With bleeding breast and bitter heart at the Teuton’s throat she springs.

Page 61, ‘ANTI-STROPHE III.’ is omitted.
Page 62, ‘STROPHE IV.’ is replaced by ‘VOICES’, but the section is included, unchanged.
Page 63, following l. viii, there is this addition:

CHORUS.

Silence and hearken yet! O but it is a cry
Heard under heaven of old, tho’ the terrible day blew by.
The red fire flames to heaven, and in the crimson glow
Black shapes with prayers and cries, are gliding to and fro.

Page 63, ANTI-STROPHE IV.’ is replaced by ‘VOICES’, but the section is included unchanged apart from
Page 64, l. ix: Sweeter than wine indeed his wretched blood would flow,
Page 65, following l. ii, there is this addition:

CHORUS.

Echo the dreadful prayer, let the fierce shaft be sped,
Till all the foul satanic things that flatter Kings be dead!

Page 65, ‘STROPHE V.’ is replaced by ‘VOICES.’ And after l. viii, there is the following revision:

CHORUS.

We see the City now, dark square and street and mart,
The muffled drum doth sound réveille in its heart,
The chain’d balloon doth swing, while men stand murmuring by,
Then with elastic bound upleaps into the sky.
We see the brightening dawn, the dimly dappled land,
The shapes with arms outstretch’d that on the housetops stand,
The eyes that turn to meet with one quick flash of fear
The birds that sad and slow wing nearer and more near.
O courage! all is well—yea, let your hearts be higher,
North, south, east, west, the souls of Frenchmen are as fire,
The reaper leaves the wheat, the workman leaves his loom,
Tho’ the black priest may frown, who heeds his look of gloom?
Flash the wild tidings forth! ring them from town to town,
Till like a storm of scythes ye rise, and the foe like wheat go down.

Page 66, ‘ANTI-STROPHE V.’ is replaced by ‘VOICES’, but the section is included, unchanged.
Page 67, following l. x, there is this addition:

CHORUS.

O Spirits, turn and look no more and hark not to their cry;
A Hand is flashed before our eyes, a Shape goes sadly by.
And as it goes, it looks on us with eyes that swim in tears,
And bitter as the death-cry sounds the echo in our ears.
O look no more and seek no more to read the days unborn,
’Tis storm this night on the world’s sea, and ’twill be storm at morn.
The Lord hath sent His breath abroad, and all the waves are stirr’d:
Amid the tempest Liberty flies like a white sea-bird,
And, while the heavens are torn apart and the fierce waters gleam,
Doth up and down the furrow’d waves dart with a sea-bird’s scream.
O bow the head, and close the eyes, and pray a quiet prayer,
But let the bitter curse of Man go by upon the air.

Page 68, l. i: The Officer’s first speech is omitted.
Page 70, l. ix: Yea out of anguish conjured victory.
Page 70, l. x: If strength and numbers, if the mighty hands
Page 76, l. iii: And triply now doth thy calamity
Page 78, l. iv: Old Uhrich, with his weight of seventy years
Page 81, l. i: What of the City of Light? How doth it bear
Page 84, l. iv omitted.
Page 84, l. v: And follow Hope to heaven. Last week I walk’d
Page 84, l. xi: Upon the coming Teuton: all was still
Page 85, l. xi: Crouching and ready for the spring. Each dawn
Page 86, l. vii: And heard at intervals mysterious sounds,
Page 86, l. viii: Like far-off thunder, or the Atlantic waves
Page 87, l. i: Towards the battlements. Then (for at last
Page 87, l. ii: A voice was raised against my life) I sought
Page 87, l. iii: Trochu, my schoolfellow and friend in arms,
Page 87, l. vii: A place in a balloon, that in the dusk
Page 87, l. xvi: Sounded réveille; then a red flash and wreath
Page 88, l. ix: And far-off muffled sounds: yet scarce a sign
Page 89, l. i: Was glimmered dimly back from hidden steel;
Page 89, l. xi: The white stars like to tapers burning out
Page 90, l. iv: Yawn where the cannon smote; in the red street
Page 90, l. vii: And rockets rise and wild shouts shake the air;
Page 92, l. v: And red as blood, has burst from west to east.
Page 94, l. vi: Pray that He may; for I am deeply sick— ]

_____

Napoleon Fallen continued