Xi

She shall rise worthier of her prototype Thro’ her abasement deep; the pain that runs From nerve to nerve some victory achieves. They lie like circle-strewn soaked Autumn-leaves Which stain the forest scarlet, her fair sons! And of their death her life is: of their blood From many streams now urging to a flood, No more divided, France shall rise afresh. Of them she learns the lesson of the flesh:— The lesson writ in red since first Time ran, A hunter hunting down the beast in man: That till the chasing out of its last vice, The flesh was fashioned but for sacrifice.

Immortal Mother of a mortal host! Thou suffering of the wounds that will not slay, Wounds that bring death but take not life away!— Stand fast and hearken while thy victors boast: Hearken, and loathe that music evermore. Slip loose thy garments woven of pride and shame: The torture lurks in them, with them the blame Shall pass to leave thee purer than before. Undo thy jewels, thinking whence they came, For what, and of the abominable name Of her who in imperial beauty wore.

O Mother of a fated fleeting host Conceived in the past days of sin, and born Heirs of disease and arrogance and scorn, Surrender, yield the weight of thy great ghost, Like wings on air, to what the heavens proclaim With trumpets from the multitudinous mounds Where peace has filled the hearing of thy sons: Albeit a pang of dissolution rounds Each new discernment of the undying ones, Do thou stoop to these graves here scattered wide Along thy fields, as sunless billows roll; These ashes have the lesson for the soul. ‘Die to thy Vanity, and strain thy Pride, Strip off thy Luxury: that thou may’st live, Die to thyself,’ they say, ‘as we have died From dear existence and the foe forgive, Nor pray for aught save in our little space To warn good seed to greet the fair earth’s face.’ O Mother! take their counsel, and so shall The broader world breathe in on this thy home, Light clear for thee the counter-changing dome, Strength give thee, like an ocean’s vast expanse Off mountain cliffs, the generations all, Not whirling in their narrow rings of foam, But as a river forward. Soaring France! Now is Humanity on trial in thee: Now may’st thou gather humankind in fee: Now prove that Reason is a quenchless scroll; Make of calamity thine aureole, And bleeding head us thro’ the troubles of the sea.