France fallen! France arisen! France of the brave! France of lost hopes! France of Promethean zeal! Napoleon's France, that bruised the despot's heel Of Europe, while the feudal world did rave. Thou France that didst burst through the rock-bound grave Which Germany and England joined to seal, And undismayed didst seek the human weal, Through which thou couldst thyself and others save-- The wreath of amaranth and eternal praise! When every hand was 'gainst thee, so was ours. Freedom remembers, and I can forget:-- Great are we by the faith our past betrays, And noble now the great Republic flowers Incarnate with the soul of Lafayette.
BERTRAND AND GOURGAUD TALK OVER OLD TIMES
Gourgaud, these tears are tears--but look, this laugh, How hearty and serene--you see a laugh Which settles to a smile of lips and eyes Makes tears just drops of water on the leaves When rain falls from a sun-lit sky, my friend, Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me, call me Beloved Bertrand. Ha! I sigh for joy. Look at our Paris, happy, whole, renewed, Refreshed by youth, new dressed in human leaves, Shaking its fresh blown blossoms to the world. And here we sit grown old, of memories Top-full--your hand--my breast is all afire With happiness that warms, makes young again.
You see it is not what we saw to-day That makes me spirit, rids me of the flesh:-- But all that I remember, we remember Of what the world was, what it is to-day, Beholding how it grows. Gourgaud, I see Not in the rise of this man or of that, Nor in a battle's issue, in the blow That lifts or fells a nation--no, my friend, God is not there, but in the living stream Which sweeps in spite of eddies, undertows, Cross-currents, what you will, to that result Where stillness shows the star that fits the star Of truth in spirits treasured, imaged, kept Through sorrow, blood and death,--God moves in that And there I find Him.
But these tears--for whom Or what are tears? The Old Guard--oh, my friend That melancholy remnant! And the horse, White, to be sure, but not Marengo, wearing The saddle and the bridle which he used. My tears take quality for these pitiful things, But other quality for the purple robe Over the coffin lettered in pure gold "Napoleon"--ah, the emperor at last Come back to Paris! And his spirit looks Over the land he loved, with what result? Does just the army that acclaimed him rise Which rose to hail him back from Elba?--no All France acclaims him! Princes of the church, And notables uncover! At the door A herald cries "The Emperor!" Those assembled Rise and do reverence to him. Look at Soult, He hands the king the sword of Austerlitz, The king turns to me, hands the sword to me, I place it on the coffin--dear Gourgaud, Embrace me, clasp my hand! I weep and laugh For thinking that the Emperor is home; For thinking I have laid upon his bed The sword that makes inviolable his bed, Since History stepped to where I stood and stands To say forever: Here he rests, be still, Bow down, pass by in reverence--the Ages Like giant caryatides that look With sleepless eyes upon the world and hold With never tiring hands the Vault of Time, Command your reverence.