| |
After Béranger
THEY’LL talk of him for years to come | |
| In cottage chronicle and tale; | |
| When for aught else renown is dumb, | |
| His legend shall prevail! | |
| Then in the hamlet’s honored chair | 5 |
| Shall sit some aged dame, | |
| Teaching to lowly clown and villager | |
| That narrative of fame. | |
| ’Tis true, they’ll say, his gorgeous throne | |
| France bled to raise; | 10 |
| But he was all our own! | |
| Mother, say something in his praise— | |
| Oh speak of him always! | |
| |
| “I saw him pass: his was a host: | |
| Countless beyond your young imaginings— | 15 |
| My children he could boast | |
| A train of conquered kings! | |
| And when he came this road, | |
| ’Twas on my bridal day, | |
| He wore—for near to him I stood— | 20 |
| Cocked hat and surcoat gray. | |
| I blushed; he said, ‘Be of good cheer! | |
| Courage, my dear!’ | |
| That was his very word.”— | |
| Mother! oh then this really occurred, | 25 |
| And you his voice could hear! | |
| |
| “A year rolled on; when next at Paris I, | |
| Lone woman that I am, | |
| Saw him pass by, | |
| Girt with his peers, to kneel at Notre Dame, | 30 |
| I knew by merry chime and signal gun, | |
| God granted him a son, | |
| And oh! I wept for joy! | |
| For why not weep when warrior-men did, | |
| Who gazed upon that sight so splendid, | 35 |
| And blessed the imperial boy? | |
| Never did noonday sun shine out so bright! | |
| Oh, what a sight!”— | |
| Mother! for you that must have been | |
| A glorious scene! | 40 |
| |
| “But when all Europe’s gathered strength | |
| Burst o’er the French frontier at length, | |
| ’Twill scarcely be believed | |
| What wonders, single-handed, he achieved. | |
| Such general never lived! | 45 |
| One evening on my threshold stood | |
| A guest—’twas he! Of warriors few | |
| He had a toil-worn retinue. | |
| He flung himself into this chair of wood, | |
| Muttering, meantime, with fearful air, | 50 |
| ‘Quelle guerre! oh, quelle guerre!’” | |
| Mother, and did our emperor sit there, | |
| Upon that very chair? | |
| |
| “He said, ‘Give me some food.’ | |
| Brown loaf I gave, and homely wine, | 55 |
| And made the kindling fire-blocks shine, | |
| To dry his cloak, with wet bedewed. | |
| Soon by the bonnie blaze he slept; | |
| Then waking, chid me (for I wept): | |
| ‘Courage!’ he cried, ‘I’ll strike for all | 60 |
| Under the sacred wall | |
| Of France’s noble capital!’ | |
| Those were his words: I’ve treasured up | |
| With pride that same wine-cup, | |
| And for its weight in gold | 65 |
| It never shall be sold!” | |
| Mother! on that proud relic let us gaze— | |
| Oh keep that cup always! | |
| |
| “But, through some fatal witchery, | |
| He whom a Pope had crowned and blessed, | 70 |
| Perished, my sons, by foulest treachery! | |
| Cast on an isle far in the lonely West. | |
| Long time sad rumors were afloat— | |
| The fatal tidings we would spurn, | |
| Still hoping from that isle remote | 75 |
| Once more our hero would return. | |
| But when the dark announcement drew | |
| Tears from the virtuous and the brave— | |
| When the sad whisper proved too true, | |
| A flood of grief I to his memory gave. | 80 |
| Peace to the glorious dead!”— | |
| Mother! may God His fullest blessing shed | |
| Upon your aged head! | |
| |
