ON THE FLY-LEAF OF ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN'S NOVEL ENTITLED "MADAME THÉRÈSE."
Wavered the foremost soldiers,--then fell back. Fallen was their leader, and loomed right before The sullen Prussian cannon, grim and black, With lighted matches waving. Now, once more, Patriots and veterans!--Ah! 'Tis in vain! Back they recoil, though bravest of the brave; No human troops may stand that murderous rain; But who is this--that rushes to a grave?
It is a woman,--slender, tall, and brown! She snatches up the standard as it falls,-- In her hot haste tumbles her dark hair down, And to the drummer-boy aloud she calls To beat the charge; then forwards on the _pont_ They dash together;--who could bear to see A woman and a child, thus Death confront, Nor burn to follow them to victory?
I read the story and my heart beats fast! Well might all Europe quail before thee, France, Battling against oppression! Years have past, Yet of that time men speak with moistened glance. _Va-nu-pieds!_ When rose high your Marseillaise Man knew his rights to earth's remotest bound, And tyrants trembled. Yours alone the praise! Ah, had a Washington but then been found!
A sea of foliage girds our garden round, But not a sea of dull unvaried green, Sharp contrasts of all colours here are seen; The light-green graceful tamarinds abound Amid the mangoe clumps of green profound, And palms arise, like pillars gray, between; And o'er the quiet pools the seemuls lean, Red,--red, and startling like a trumpet's sound. But nothing can be lovelier than the ranges Of bamboos to the eastward, when the moon Looks through their gaps, and the white lotus changes Into a cup of silver. One might swoon Drunken with beauty then, or gaze and gaze On a primeval Eden, in amaze.
Love came to Flora asking for a flower That would of flowers be undisputed queen, The lily and the rose, long, long had been Rivals for that high honour. Bards of power Had sung their claims. "The rose can never tower Like the pale lily with her Juno mien"-- "But is the lily lovelier?" Thus between Flower-factions rang the strife in Psyche's bower. "Give me a flower delicious as the rose And stately as the lily in her pride"-- "But of what colour?"--"Rose-red," Love first chose, Then prayed,--"No, lily-white,--or, both provide;" And Flora gave the lotus, "rose-red" dyed, And "lily-white,"--the queenliest flower that blows.