ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN (1841 - 1901)

{The Drama of Kings 1871}

                                                                                                                                                               367

CHORUS.

Pray for France!

VOICE.

Gather together! Advance!

CHORUS.

Pray for them!

A VOICE.

                           Fire!

CHORUS.

                                       God in heaven!
As a forest by lightning is riven,
As the rolls of the sea are plough’d white
By the wind, they are stricken; and bright
Blaze the manifold eyes of the fire
As they tremble and scream and expire;
Again and again and again,
Like the lightning-rent clouds of the rain,
Like the waves of the sea in the storm,
They gather together and form;
And again and again and again
They are scatter’d like hail, and the plain
Is black with the mounds of the slain.
O pray for them! Fire swift and fleet                                                  368
Ploughs them as wind plougheth wheat!
O pray for them all! Pray for France!

A VOICE.

Gather together! Advance!

CHORUS.

Onward, still nearing
     The eyes that flash on them;
     Onward unfearing,
         Tho’ the death-bolts crash on them,
     Torn asunder
     By lightning and thunder,
     Though the black shells thicken
         And rain red death on them,
     Rent and stricken,
         With Fire’s fierce breath on them,
     Still forward winning,
     But ever thinning,
     Onward they go,
         Over dying and dead,
     Leaving the snow
         Not white but red.
         And now like a torrent,                                                  369
         Furious, horrent,
         From his lair in the dark
         Springs the foe; and hark!
     Like waters meeting
         They gather and scream,
     While drums are beating
         And the death’s-eyes gleam!—
     Like trees of the forest
     When the storm-wind is sorest,
     Like waves of the ocean,
     They meet in wild motion,
     They reel, they advance,
         They gather—they stand;
     Their wild weapons glance,
         They are scattered like sand.

A VOICE.

     Courage!—for France!

ANOTHER VOICE.

Fatherland! fatherland!

                                                                                                                                                                 370

CHORUS.

The light is glowing
     Around blood-red,
The winds are blowing,
And the clouds are snowing
     On the heaps of dead.
The white snows cover them,
The swords flash over them,
Death waits each way for them,—
O bless them, pray for them!
They are mingled like water,
They are grappled in slaughter,
Face to face like wolves glaring,
With eyes fiercely staring,
Grappled and crying,
     Rank within rank,
Dead, living, and dying,
     Teuton and Frank;
Like a cloud struck by lightning
     And rent into rain,
Darkening and brightening
     They cover the plain.

                                                                                                                                                                 371

VOICE.

Charge!

VOICES OF CAVALRY.

Fatherland!

A VOICE.

Gather together and stand!

VOICES.

     Charge!

CHORUS.

Shaking the ground,
With a tramp and a roar,
     With a torrent’s force,
With a sound like the sound
Of the sea on the shore,
     Come the Teuton horse.
How they ride! with their bare
Swords uplifted in air,
And each man bending low
O’er his steed’s saddle-bow,
While his fiery eyes glow,                                                         372
On they ride! On they go!
Now, screaming aloud,
They have struck on the crowd,
Like the wind on a cloud,
     Like a knife at the heart;
It scatters, it rives
Into dark wreaths of lives
     That struggle apart.

VOICES.

     Fly! fly! fly!

CHORUS.

Hark how they scatter and cry!
     Hark how a melody thin
     Sounds the retreat from within—
See how they linger and die!

VOICES.

Fly! fly! fly!

CHORUS.

     O woe, O woe,
     Like storms that blow
         On a mount and shake it not,                                                   373
     Like waves that dash,
     Crash after crash,
         On a rock and break it not;
Like wind against tide, only beating it whiter,
Like wind striking fire and but making it brighter,
     France striketh with passionate breath,
And closer and closer, and tighter and tighter,
     The fiery Snake clings to her,
     With glistening rings to her;
         She moans, she grows feeble in death.
         O pray for her! plead for her!
         Cry! intercede for her!

VOICES WITHIN.

         Bread! give us bread!

CHORUS.

We hearken and sicken—
’Tis the famine-stricken.
Ah, the deep moan in the air,
Blown from the depths of despair.
Hark, too, drums beat and feet tread.

                                                                                                                                                                 374

A VOICE.

Go forth and bury the dead.

CHORUS.

Silent still falleth the snow,
Still the clouds drive, the winds blow—
Again, like fierce eyes in a dream,
The dreadful guns open and gleam
To a hollow reverberation,
And the shriek of a shatter’d nation:
Column and turret are riven,
Shrieking fire springeth to heaven.
Woe for the city of splendour!
Man hath no pity to lend her!
He calleth Hell’s legions to rend her!—
Her sins were against her God—
     May God forgive her them;
She lieth opprest, under-trod,—
God striketh her hosts to the sod,
     And His lightnings shiver them.

VOICES WITHIN.

Hear us, O God!

                                                                                                                                                                 375

CHORUS.

O God, deliver them!

The CHANCELLOR. A BONAPARTIST OFFICER.

CHANCELLOR.

Bid him rest silent, watching from his prison
How the dice fall; for ’tis a game (he knows)
Where no man, let him reckon as he will,
Can quite sum up the chances.

OFFICER.

                                         Is there hope?
He asks; and further, dost thou bid him hope?

CHANCELLOR.

I know not. Why, hope comes of God, not man.

OFFICER.

Should he return and grasp his scatter’d crown,
Will ye oppose his path, or stand aside?

                                                                                                                                                                 376

CHANCELLOR.

Now, softly;—there upon the earth he lies,
A thing we never loved, an idol of gold
We vowed to shatter; but we sought forsooth
To break him not destroy him; and perchance—
I say perchance—it might be well for Gaul
To take her ancient image for a space
In lieu of this red Spectre stalking now
Among the imperial shadows of the time.
Let him lie still, making no sign, and wait
For our uplifted finger. Time will show.

OFFICER.

How fares it with the broken hosts of France?

CHANCELLOR.

Ill. Here come tidings. Stand aside and hear.
                                                                         [Enter a MESSENGER.
Speak!

MESSENGER.

     These despatches from the west. Like chaff
Before the strong fan of the winnower,
The Breton host is flying. Wild Misrule                                              377
And Superstition, in the gloomy camp
Stalking phantasmic, awe the ignorant ranks
And scatter them along the dark, like mists
Wind-broken into thin and wavering rain.
The priest-rid peasants in the act to advance
Linger to pray, and trembling count their beads;
And tho’ the frantic leaders scream their best,
And conjure in the name of all the saints,
The squadrons melt between two strange extremes—
The brute-stare of inaction and the fire
Of sudden panic scattering at one flash
These—oxen.

CHANCELLOR (to OFFICER.)

Dost thou hear?

MESSENGER.

                                       Even as a man
Lured by the dancing ignis fatuus,
The Greek Bourbaki step by step withdrew
To the east, and our two legions of the Loire,                                     378
No longer held asunder, struck Le Mans
At midnight. ’Twas a bloody blow and brief!
We did divide the host, from bourne to bourne
Drove them, devour’d their wavering lines with fire,
While staring frantic at the flame-lit dark
The Bretons saw in mingled lineaments
All horrible the looks of friend and foe,
Struck in the darkness at each other’s hearts,
Clung to each other, drove like breaking waves
Hither and thither with no aim and will;
And now, torn thus into two broken hosts,
They for whom hungry eyes watch day by day
Out of the City yonder, drift to the south
Swift as the storm-wreck when the storm is spent.

                                                                         [Enter a MESSENGER.

                                                                                                                                                                 379

CHANCELLOR.

Whence comest thou?

MESSENGER.

                         From Belfort. Thrice the sun
Arose and set above the bloody Luisne,
While hour by hour, ever repulsed, the French
Struck with despairing strength upon the line
Of brave Von Werder, which like some great rock
Stagger’d before the thunderbolt but stood;
And lo! even as a torrent spends itself
And scatters, the wild legions of the Greek
Fell back and broke with their own furious force.
And now, in bloody runlets, water-weak,
Southward they flow, a murmur in the fields,
A dark mass drifting to uncertain doom,
And with their impotent despairing cry,
Dies the last hope of all that strike for France.

                                                                                                                                                             380 [note]

CHORUS.

         Who passeth there
         Naked and bare,
     A bloody sword upraising?
         Who with thin moan
         Glides past alone,
     At the black heaven gazing?
         Limbs thin and stark,
         Eyes sunken and dark,
The lightning round her leaping?
     What shape floats past
     Upon the blast,
Crouching in pain and creeping?
     Behold! her eyes to heaven are cast,
And they are red with weeping.

         Say a prayer thrice
         With lips of ice:
’Tis she—yea, and no other;
         Look not at me
         So piteously,
O France—O martyr mother!
         O whither now,
         With branded brow
     And bleeding heart, art flying?                                                       381
         Whither away?
         O stand! O stay!
Tho’ winds, waves, clouds are crying—
     Dawn cometh swift—’twill soon be day—
The Storm of God is dying.

         She will not speak,
         But, spent and weak,
Droops her proud head and goeth;
         See! she crawls past,
         Upon the blast,
Whither no mortal knoweth—
         O’er fields of fight,
         Where glimmer white
Death’s steed and its gaunt rider—
         Thro’ storm and snow,
         Behold her go,
With never a friend beside her—
     O Shepherd of all winds that blow,
To Quiet Waters guide her!

         There, for a space,
         Let her sad face
Fall in a tranquil mirror—                                                                   382
         There spirit-sore
         May she count o’er
Her sin, her shame, her error,—
         And read with eyes
         Made sweet and wise
What her strong God hath taught her,
         With face grown fair
         And bosom bare
And hands made clean from slaughter—
     O Shepherd, seek and find her there,
Beside some Quiet Water!

[Notes:
Page 380: This Chorus is included as ‘The Spirit of France’ in the ‘Songs of the Terrible Year’ section in Volume II of the 1874 H. S. King version of The Poetical Works, and the subsequent 1884 Chatto & Windus edition.]

CHANCELLOR. BUONAPARTIST OFFICER. A MESSENGER.

MESSENGER.

’Tis finished. In the south Gambetta screams,
Summoning all the winds to strike for France,
But the last breath is spent. The broken hosts
Have drifted wild into Helvetia,
And there, with faces sicker than the snow
That glimmers up above them silently,
Have twenty thousand men laid down their arms.                               383
Nothing abides to conquer. ’Tis not war,
But mere sheep-chasing in the shambles now;
And our strong legions hold their hands and smile,
Having no hearts to strike like martial men
At things so little worthy of their steel.         [Exit.

CHANCELLOR.

I know not what strange potion they have drunk,
What black magician holds them with his arts,
But struggling with these Frenchmen is to fight
With Circe’s swine; they know no head, no hand,
But go like driftweed up and down the tide;
The land they dwell in is to them as strange
As Egypt’s sand-hills or the Russian snows
To Buonaparte’s thinning phalanxes;                                                  384
They huddle and starve on their own hearths, and find
The prospect foreign and barbarian;
They have no hearts, no stomachs, and they fall
Before our bolts as the affrighted hordes
Before the prodigies whose flash foredoom’d
The Roman and the Goth.
As easy ’twere to animate the dead,
Or fill a flock of oxen with one soul,
As fashion those false Frenchmen to the form
Thy fathers wore to darken Christendom.

OFFICER.

They lack indeed a name to conjure with;
I know of one might animate them yet.

CHANCELLOR.

Not that, which like a wind-bag at Sedan
Burst with a puff of lean and braggart speech.
The Man of Elba were himself too weak
To fill this thin and broken frame of France:
It lacks a soul indeed, and such a soul;                                               385
But it is broken in the body too.
I tell thee only he thou servest made
This body what it is. Not such a soul
As filled it out of Buonaparté’s breath,
But rather like a very Incubus,
Napoleon sat and fatten’d,—round the neck
Of France clung as a pamper’d slothful child
That drains the weary mother hour by hour:
A very Changeling, monstrous and unblest,
Ev’n such as thou hast heard thy grandam tell
Were dropt in peasants’ cradles by the elves:
A crafty, strange, mysterious sort of birth,
Jealous, green-eyed, big-brain’d, and weak of feet,
Drawing not merely moisture from the breast
But blood and life itself. Nay, hear me out!
These changeling babes had oftentimes the skill
To make the mother love them, as indeed
Poor France did love her monster for a time,
And she forgave him even Mexico,
Because he smiled her down; and, day by day,
Fastened upon by her unnatural birth,
She like a mortal mother weakening                                                   386
Crawled up and down the globe. For she was glad
Because the world was sunny, and the board
Well-stored, the fields most golden at her door,
Nor knew the fatal lips that drew her milk
Were subtly sucking at her strength and life.
Not till the thing fell from her, and the foe
Sprang at her, did she learn her feebleness,
Limbs, tongue, eyes, heart, all fail’d her as she strove,
Though with the fury of a thing that dies
She clings with weakening clutches to the end.

CHORUS.

STROPHE I.

Ay me, to dwell in some remote still valley,
     Far from the civil fret and martial pride,
To sit by some sweet river musically
     Singing for shepherds piping happy-eyed;
     Ay me, to quit sad cities and abide
Where never name of king was ever known,                                     387
Where never sword is drawn or trumpet blown,
     Where the slow hours from morn to eventide,
Sweet, silent, and alone,
     Move like a feeding flock on some green mountain-side.

ANTISTROPHE I.

For my heart bleeds, my soul with tears is swelling,
     To see mankind so tame to taunts and stings,
How, knowing not the might within them dwelling,
     They take the tyrant’s yoke like soulless things;
     Crouch, crawl beneath the lash of underlings,
And even as silly sheep are bought and sold,
Driven from the pleasant pasture and the fold,
     Drawn from the fresh fields and the crystal springs,                        388
Slain for a little gold,
     Slaughter’d forsooth like beasts, to please the whim of Kings.

STROPHE II.

And even as silly seals in summer weather,
     With large eyes listening, from the deep below
Rise up, and gather hearkening together,
     Because some cunning fisher fluteth slow,
     And follow sleepily while the seamen row,
And so are led to doom and have no fear;—
Even such as these are foolish mortals here,
     With empty eyes that neither see nor know,
But blankly gaze and peer,
     And follow a vain sound wherever it doth go.

ANTISTROPHE II.

And, one by one, out of the wondrous portal,
     Whose backward darkness no man’s eye may read,
Some monster comes, strong, subtle, and most mortal,                       389
     And him the foolish people follow indeed,
     Crying, “This is no man of mortal seed,
But more divine than any human thing!”
And in his steps they follow clamouring;
     Whither he listeth, though their sore feet bleed,
They follow him their King,—
     Until he sinks, and lo! some other comes to lead.

STROPHE III.

O mortal men, awake, and gather, and go not;
     Hear wise men speak, hear God’s own prophets cry.
Be not as poor tame things that see not, know not,
     But smile, and let the unnatural birth go by;
     Stop ye your ears against its human sigh,
And if it threatens, threaten ye again—                                              390
Yea, send it forth to sow and reap the grain,
     As ye do, underneath the peaceful sky;
Or hold it with a chain;
     And if all chains are vain, strike it and let it die.

CHOIR WITHOUT.

Gloria Deo! Floreat Imperator!

ANTISTROPHE III.

O hearken, hearken! for I hear a crying
     Of many voices, and the clang of swords,
With what strange cry do voices multiplying
     Rend the day’s darkness into thunderous words?
     “Glory to God!” cry these triumphant hordes,
Having made sacrifice most manifold;
And unto Him the armëd people hold,
     With acclamations and most glad accords,                                    391
A foolish King and old;
     “Glory to God!” they cry;—yea, glory is the Lord’s.

CHOIR WITHOUT.

Glorea Deo! Floreat Patria!

EPODE.

Creep closer, hearkening. ’Tis a sound like thunder,
     Deep as the roll of waves on some sad shore,
And, listening, our hearts are torn asunder.
     Would we might die! would that the world were o’er!
     For life is bitter, and mere breath is sore,
Seeing how mortal men are slain and slay
At will of each new creature of a day,
     Crafty or foolish, him they will adore.                                           392
     Oh might we pass away,
Die, cease, be done with earth; slumber, and see no more.

CHORUS. A MESSENGER.

MESSENGER.

Why, women, do ye linger pale-faced here,
Hearkening, each with hand upon her heart?

CHORUS.

We hear glad sounds, the tread of mailëd feet,
The playing of light music, and, moreover,
The organ’s plagal cadence deep and low.

VOICES.

Gloria in excelsis Deo!

CHORUS.

                                       Hark!
Yonder the City burns and moans; and here
There comes a ripple of music and glad speech.

                                                                                                                                                                 393

MESSENGER.

’Tis a blest day. Within the triumph-hall
They hail our Wilhelm German Emperor.

VOICES.

Gloria Deo! Plaudite, omnes gentes!

CHORUS.

O woe!—while France lies bleeding at his feet!

MESSENGER.

Hush; and stand back—why do ye wring your hands?
See; ’tis a sight to make an old man young.

[The Scene opens, revealing the interior of
the Hall of Mirrors. The KAISER,
surrounded by the Princes and Leaders
of the host. Priests pronouncing the
Benediction, and Choristers intoning.
Organ-music.

A Rainbow of the mighty of the Earth
Arching the great grey head; and mirror’d back,
Out of a thousand silver pools of glass,                                               394
A gleaming of rich robes, a flash of steel,
Waves of uplifted faces round the King,
All phosphorescent with their own wild light,
Like to the sea washing an ocean isle
Purpled with blooms and dim with orient gold.

CHOIR.

Gloria in excelsis Deo!

KAISER.

From Him the Highest, who alone can give,
This day I take the great imperial Crown
I sought not; at His bidding, at His hands,
I take the Crown and I uplift the Sword.

CHOIR.

Cantate Deo! Jubilate, gentes!

                                                                                                       [note]

PRIEST.

Hark to the Song of the Sword!
In the beginning, a Word
Came from the lips of the Lord;                                                        395
And He said, “The Earth shall be,
And around the Earth the Sea,                                                          [l.iii]
And over these twain the Skies;
And out of the Earth shall rise
Man, the last and the first;
And Man shall hunger and thirst,
And shall eat of the fruits in the sun,
And drink of the streamlets that run,
And shall find the wild yellow grains,
And, opening earth, in its veins
Sow the seeds of the same; for of bread
I have written that he shall be fed.”
Thus at the first said the Lord.

CHOIR.

Hark to the Song of the Sword!

THE PRIEST.

Then Man sowed the grain, and to bread
Kneaded the grain, and was fed,
He and his household indeed
To the last generation and seed:
Then the children of men, young and old,                                           396
Sat by the waters of gold,
And ate of the bread and the fruit,
And drank of the stream, but made suit
For blessing no more than the brute.
And God said, “’Twere better to die
Than eat and drink merely, and lie
Beast-like and foul on the sod,
Lusting, forgetful of God!”
And He whispered, “Dig deeper again,
Under the region of grain,
And bring forth the thing ye find there
Shapeless and dark; and prepare
Fire,—and into the same
Cast what ye find—let it flame—
And when it is burning blood-bright,
Pluck it forth, and with hammers of sleight                                        [l.xvii]
Beat it out, beat it out, till ye mark
The thing that was shapeless and dark
Grown beautiful, azure, and keen,
Purged in the fire and made clean,
Beautiful, holy, and bright,
Gleaming aloft in the light;—
Then lift it, and wield!” said the Lord.

                                                                                                                                                                 397

CHOIR.

Hark to the Song of the Sword!

PRIEST.

Then Man with a brighter desire 
Saw the beautiful thing from the fire,
And the slothful arose, and the mean
Trembled to see it so keen,
And God, as they gather’d and cried,
Thunder’d a Word far and wide:                                                       [l.vii]
“This Sword is the Sword of the Strong!
It shall strike at the life’s blood of wrong;
It shall kill the unclean, it shall wreak
My doom on the shameful and weak;
And the strong with this sign in their hands
Shall gather their hosts in the lands,
And strike at the mean and the base,
And strengthen from race on to race;
And the weak shall be wither’d at length,
For the glory of Man in his strength,
And the weak man must die,” saith the Lord.

                                                                                                                                                                 398

CHOIR.

Hark to the Song of the Sword!

PRIEST.

Sire, whom all men of thy race
Name as their hope and their grace;
King of the Rhine-water’d land,
Heart of the state and its hand,
Thou of the purple and crown,
Take, while thy servants bow down,
The Sword in thy grasp.

KAISER.

                                         It is done.

PRIEST.

Uplift! let it gleam in the sun—
Uplift in the name of the Lord!

CHOIR.

Hail to the King and the Sword!

                                                                                                                                                                 399

KAISER.

Lo! how it gleams in the light,
Beautiful, bloody, and bright—
Such in the dark days of yore
The monarchs of Israel bore;
Such by the angels of heaven
To Charles the Mighty was given—
Yea, I uplift the Sword,
Thus in the name of the Lord!

THE CHIEFS.

Form ye a circle of fire
Around him, our King and our Sire—
While in the centre he stands,
Kneel with your swords in your hands,
Then with one voice deep and free
Echo like waves of the sea—
     “In the name of the Lord!”

CHANCELLOR.

Sire, while thou liftest the Sword,
Thus in the name of the Lord,
I too, thy slave, kneel and blend                                                        400
My voice with the hosts that attend—
Yea, and while kneeling I hold
A scroll writ in letters of gold,
With the names of the monarchs who bow
Thy liegemen throned lower than thou;
Moreover, in letters of red,
Their names who ere long must be led
To thy feet, while thou liftest the Sword,
Thus in the name of the Lord!

VOICES WITHOUT.

Where is he?—he fades from our sight!
Where the Sword?—all is blacker than night.
Is it finish’d, that loudly ye cry?
Doth he sheathe the great Sword while we die?
O bury us deep, most deep;
Write o’er us, wherever we sleep,
“In the name of the Lord!”

KAISER.

While I uplift the Sword,
Thus in the name of the Lord,
Why, with mine eyes full of tears,                                                       401
Am I sick of the song in mine ears?
God of the Israelite, hear;
God of the Teuton, be near;
Strengthen my pulse lest I fail,
Shut out these slain while they wail—
For they come with the voice of the grave
On the glory they give me and gave.

CHORUS.

In the name of the Lord? Of what Lord?
Where is He, this God of the Sword?
Unfold Him; where hath He his throne?
Is he Lord of the Teuton alone?
Doth He walk on the earth? Doth he tread
On the limbs of the dying and dead?
Unfold him! We sicken, and long
To look on this God of the strong!

PRIEST.

Hush! In the name of the Lord,
Kneel ye, and bless ye the Sword!
Bless it with soul and with brain,                                                         402
Bless it for saved and for slain,
For the sake of the dead in the tomb,
For the sake of the child in the womb,
For the sake of these Kings on the knee,
For the sake of a world it shall free!
Bless it, the Sword! bless the Sword!
Yea, in the name of the Lord!

CHIEFS.

Deepen the circle of Fire
Around him, our King and our Sire!
While in our centre he towers,
Kneeling, ye spirits, ye powers,
Bless it and bless it again,
Bless it for saved and for slain,
Bless ye the beautiful Sword,
Aloud in the name of the Lord!

KAISER.

In the name of the Lord!

                                                                                                                                                                 403

ALL.

In the name of the Lord!

[Notes:
Page 394: The section beginning with the Priest’s line, ‘Hark to the Song of the Sword!’ is included as ‘The Apotheosis of the Sword. (Versailles, 1871.)’ in the ‘Songs of the Terrible Year’ section in Volume II of the 1874 H. S. King version of The Poetical Works, and the subsequent 1884 Chatto & Windus edition, with the following alterations:
Page 395, l. iii: And around the Earth and Sea,
Page 396, l. xvii: Pluck it forth, and with hammers of might
Page 397, l. vii: Thunder’d a World far and wide: ]

THE CHOIR.

By the Light adored,
     By Father, and Son, and Spirit,
By the Name and the Word,
     By the blood of Christ we inherit—
Lord of the Rhenish land,
Heart of the state and its hand,
Take the Sword of the Lord,
     Uplift and bear it!

Where the Rhine is pour’d
     Round the German lands that are one with it,
Where in sweet accord
     Fair streams fall into and run with it,
Rise with the Sword in thy hand,
Glory and strength of the land;
Take the Sword from the Lord,
     Stand up in the sun with it!

In the name of the Lord,                                                                     404
     ’Tis done; and His hand hath deckt thee:
By the Light Adored,
     None may henceforth reject thee—
Heart of the Fatherland,
Heart and spirit and hand,
The Lord and the Word and the Sword,
     Keep and protect thee!

THE KAISER.

Princes, and powers, and principalities,
Kings, brethren, round whose lands the Rhine rolls waves
Blue as the German heaven that bends above,
Ye who henceforth shall shine around our throne
Like glorious constellations, in your places
Set by God’s hand as light for human eyes,
Friends, brethren, Kings and kinsmen, words are weak,
All oratory dumb, music too faint,
All art too feeble and inadequate,
To measure the large issue of this day.
There is a God that cuts the path of Kings,                                        405
Leading them whither He listeth; and that God—
Albeit at first I trembled at His hand,
Albeit the path seem’d dark before my feet,
And my heart fail’d me since the path was strange—
That God hath led me hither, safe, supreme,
Chief of a living people, arm and heart,
A King, the seed of Kings, and chosen head
Of Kings anointed. Him, the King of Kings,
Before whose feet I am as dust, I praise;
And though the embers of my life grow cold,
And snow is on my hair, and in mine eyes
Doubt and a gathering darkness, Him I bless
That He hath led me just before the end
As to a mountain-summit, whence I see,
Not darkly, but with most ineffable light,
A fair long prospect of regenerate days;
And even as one upon a lofty height
I hear afar-off very faint and sweet
The murmur of glad cities, the deep hum
Of happy millions moving to and fro
In gentle interchange of life and love.
I do believe that land God gave to us,                                               406
That land which robbers pillaged in the night,
That land we have redeem’d with precious blood,
Is blest henceforth, and the bright sword I hold
May in the strong hands of my son become
No firebrand but a symbol; not a thing
Left like the steel of some old warrior
To rust upon the wall, but ever bright
And beauteous; not a firebrand, not a threat,
But part of pomp and peaceful pageantry,
Flashing with memorable light and fire
Into the hungry eyes of those who prowl
Like wolves around the pastures and the pens
Where the Great Shepherd in the beginning set
The nations of the earth. Yea, may it rise,
Beautiful, terrible, and fiery fair,
Like to the living sword that trembled o’er
The golden Gates of Eden; and beneath
May very Eden blossom: light and flowers,
Rich vineyards, yellow harvests, hamlets glad
Bosom’d in greenness, churches whose fair spires                             407
Gleaming in sunlight point the path to peace,—
The Land of the great River, yours and mine,
Our birthright, given back at last by God
To be the heirloom of our latest seed!

                                                                                                       [note]

THE CHIEFS.

     Flash the sword!—and even as thunder
         Utter ye one living voice,—
     While the watching nations wonder,
         Hills of Fatherland, rejoice:
Echo!—echo back our prayers and acclamations!

CHORUS.

     France, O Mother! lie and hearken,
         Make no bitterer sign of woe,
     Here within thee all things darken,
         All things brighten with thy foe:
Hush thy weeping; still thy bitter lamentations.

                                                                                                         408

THE CHIEFS.

     Flash the sword!—A voice is flowing
         From the Baltic bound in white,
     Though ’tis blowing chill and snowing,
         Blue-eyed Teutons see the light.
And the far white hills of Norway hear the crying.

CHORUS.

     Thou too hearkenest, Mother dearest,
         Thou too hearkenest through thy tears,
     And thou tremblest as thou hearest,
         For ’tis thunder in thine ears;
And thou gazest on the dead and on the dying.

THE CHIEFS.

     Lübeck answers and rejoices,
         Though her dead are brought to her;
     Potsdam thunders; there are voices
         In the fields of Hanover;
And the spirits of the lonely Hartz awaken.

                                                                                                         409

CHORUS.

     And in France’s vales and mountains
         Hands are wrung and tears are shed;
     Women sit by village fountains,
         And the water bubbles red.
O comfort, O be of comfort—ye forsaken!

THE CHIEFS.

     O’er Bavarian woods and rivers,—
         Where the Brunswick heather waves,—
     On the glory goes and quivers
         Through the Erzgebirge caves;
And the swords of Styria gleam like moonlit water.

CHORUS.

     There is silence, there is weeping
         On the bloody banks of Seine,
     And the unburied dead are sleeping
         In the fields of trampled grain;
While the roadside Christs stare down on fields of slaughter.

                                                                                                         410

THE CHIEFS.

     Flash the Sword! Where need is sorest,
         Sitting in the lonely night,
     While the wind in the Black Forest
         Moans, the woodman sees the light;
And the hunters wind the horn and hail each other.

CHORUS.

     Strasbourg sits among her ashes
         With a last despairing cry,
     East and west red ruin flashes
         With a red light on the sky.
Not a word! Sit yet and hearken, O my mother!

THE CHIEFS.

     Flash the sword! The glades of Baden
         Echo; Jena laughs anon;
     Dresden old and Stuttgart gladden,
         There is mirth in Ratisbon:—
And underneath the Linden there is leaping.

                                                                                                         411

CHORUS.

     In thine arms the horror tarries,
         And the sword-flash gleams on thee,
     Hide thy funeral face, O Paris,
         Do not hearken; do not see;
Electra, clasp thine urn—and hush thy weeping.

THE CHIEFS.

     Hamburg kindles, and her women
         Sadly smile remembering all;
     There are bitter smiles in Bremen,
         Where Vandamme’s fierce feet did fall;
But the Katzbach, O the Katzbach laugheth loudly!

CHORUS.

     Comfort, mother! hear not, heed not;
         Let the dead bury the dead!
     Fold thy powerless hands and plead not,
         They remember sorrows fled,
And their dead go by them, silently and proudly.

                                                                                                         412

THE CHIEFS.

     O that Fritz’s soul could hear it
         In the walks of Sans Souci!
     O to waken Lützow’s spirit,
         Blucher’s too, the grim and free;
And the Jäger, the wild Jäger, would they listen’d!

CHORUS.

     Comfort, mother! O cease weeping!
         Let the past bury the past:
     Faces of the slain and sleeping
         Gleam along upon the blast.
Yea, ’twas “Leipsic” that they murmur’d as they glisten’d.

THE CHIEFS.

     All the land of the great River
         Slowly brightens near and far;
     Lost for once, and saved for ever,
         Körner’s spirit like a star
Shooteth past, and all remember the beginning.

                                                                                                         413

CHORUS.

     They are rising, they are winging,
         Spirits of her singers dead,
     ’Tis an old song they are singing—
         Fold thy hands and bow thy head—
But they sing for thee too, gentle to thy sinning.

THE CHIEFS.

     And the River to the ocean
         Rolls; and all its castles dim
     Gleam; and with a shadowy motion,
         Like a mist upon its brim,
Rise the Dead,—and look this way with shining faces.

CHORUS.

     Thine, too, rise!—and darkly cluster,
         Moaning sad around thee now,
     In their eyes there is no lustre,
         They are cold as thy cold brow—
Let them vanish; let them sleep in their dark places.

                                                                                                         414

THE CHIEFS.

     Flash the sword! In the fair valleys
         Where the scented Neckar flows,
     Fair-hair’d Teutons lift the chalice,
         And the winter vineyard grows,
And the almond forests tremble into blossom.

CHORUS.

     On thy vineyards the cold daylight
         Gleams, and they are deathly chill—
     Women wander in the grey light,
         And the lean trees whistle shrill;
Hold thine urn, O martyr mother, to thy bosom.

THE CHIEFS.

     Flash the sword!—Sweet notes of pleasure
         O’er the Rhenish upland swell,
     And the overhanging azure
         Sees itself in the Moselle.
All the land of the great River gleams and hearkens!

                                                                                                         415

CHORUS.

     Dost thou hear them? dost thou see them?
         There ’tis gladness, here ’tis pain;
     One great spirit comes to free them
         But he holds thee with a chain.
All the land of the great City weeps and darkens!

THE CHIEFS.

     River of the mighty people,
         Broaden to the sea and flow—
     Mirror tilth and farm and steeple,
         Darken with boats that come and go.
Flow gently, like a babe that smiles and prattles.

CHORUS.

     Yea! and though thou flow for ever,
         Bright and bloodless as to-day,
     Scarcely wilt thou wash, O River,
         Thy dark load of dead away,
O bloody River! O field of many battles!

                                                                                                         416

THE CHIEFS.

     On with great immortal waters
         Brightening to a day divine,
     Through the fields of many slaughters
         Freely roll, O German Rhine.
Let the Teuton drink thy wine and wax the stronger.

CHORUS.

     On and on, O mighty River,
         Flow through lands of corn and vine—
     Turn away, O France, for ever,
         Look no more upon the Rhine;
On the River of many sorrows look no longer.

THE CHIEFS.

     Lo! the white Alps for a token
         With the wild aurora gleam,
     And the Spectre of the Brocken
         Stands aloft with locks that stream,—
All the land of the great River can behold it!

                                                                                                         417

CHORUS.

     Hide thine eyes and look not thither!
         For in answer to their cries,
     Fierce the Phantasm gazeth hither
         With an Avenging Angel’s eyes;
It is fading, and the mists of storm enfold it!

[Notes:
Page 407: The section beginning with ’The Chiefs’ is included as ‘The Chaunt by the Rhine. (1871.)’ in the ‘Songs of the Terrible Year’ section in Volume II of the 1874 H. S. King version of The Poetical Works, and the subsequent 1884 Chatto & Windus edition, with the following alterations:
‘The Chaunt by the Rhine’ has the same Latin inscription from ‘The Asclepian Dialogue’ which introduces The Drama of Kings.
‘The Chiefs’ and the ‘Chorus’ are replaced with ‘First Voice (From Germany)’ and ‘Second Voice (From France)’. The descriptions are omitted after the initial use. ]

_____

The Drama of Kings continued

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