ODE TO FRANCE. FEBRUARY, 1848. I. As, flake by flake, the beetling avalanches Build up their imminent crags of noiseless snow, Till some chance thrill the loosened ruin launches There seemed no strength in the dumb toiler's tears, No strength in suffering;--but the Past was strong: The brute despair of trampled centuries Leaped up with one hoarse yell and snapped its bands, Groped for its right with horny, callous hands, Set wrong to balance wrong, II. They did as they were taught; not theirs the blame, If men who scattered firebrands reaped the flame : They trampled Peace beneath their savage feet, And by her golden tresses drew Mercy along the pavement of the street. O, Freedom! Freedom! is thy morning-dew So gory red? Alas, thy light had ne'er Shone in upon the chaos of their lair! They reared to thee such symbol as they knew, And worshipped it with flame and blood, A Vengeance, axe in hand, that stood Holding a tyrant's head up by the clotted hair. woe, Their grinding centuries,-what Muse had those? Though hall and palace had nor eyes nor ears, Hardening a people's heart to senseless stone, Thou knowest them, O Earth, that drank their tears, O Heaven, that heard their inarticulate moan! They noted down their fetters, link by link; Coarse was the hand that scrawled, and red the ink; Rude was their score, as suits unlettered men, Notched with a headsman's axe upon a block : What marvel if, when came the avenging shock, "Twas Ate, not Urania, held the pen? IV. With eye averted and an anguished frown, Loathingly glides the Muse through scenes of strife, Where, like the heart of Vengeance up and down, Throbs in its framework the blood-muffled knife; Slow are the steps of Freedom, but her feet The peasant sees it leap from peak to peak ran; 'Twas close beside him there, Sunrise whose Memnon is the soul of man. V. O Broker-King, is this thy wisdom's fruit? Grown rankly in a night, that leaves no seed! Could eighteen years strike down no deeper root? But now thy vulture eye was turned on Spain,— A shout from Paris, and thy crown falls off, And thou become a fugitive and scoff: Slippery the feet that mount by stairs of gold, And weakest of all fences one of steel ; Go and keep school again like him of old, The Syracusan tyrant ;-thou mayst feel Royal amid a birch-swayed commonweal! VI. Not long can he be ruler who allows His time to run before him; thou wast naught Thou hadst to cope with; thou didst wage And, like poor last year's leaves, whirled thee and thine Into the Dark forever! VII. Is here no triumph? Nay, what though The yellow blood of Trade meanwhile should pour Along its arteries a shrunken flow, And the idle canvas droop around the shore? Nor keep it great; I think God made The earth for man, not trade; And where each humblest human creature To heaven and earth knit with harmonious ties,- Of manhood glowing in those eyes Or only lit with bestial loves and rages- The France which lies I see her rather in the soul whose shine VIII. And if it be a dream, If the great Future be the little Past 'Neath a new mask, which drops and shows at last The same weird, mocking face to balk and blast, Yet, Muse, a gladder measure suits the theme, Loves notes more resolute and sharp, Theirs is no vague forewarning, The dreams which nations dream come true, Make it long, make it deep, O Father, who sendest the harvests men reap! His sorrow is gone, No longer he weepeth, But smileth and steepeth His thoughts in the dawn; |