Part 17

Near where the royal victims fell In days gone by, caught in the swell Of a ruthless tide Of human passion, deep and wide: There where we two A Nation's later sorrow knew-- To-day, O friend! I stood Amid a self-ruled multitude That by nor sound nor word Betrayed how mightily its heart was stirred,

A memory Time never could efface-- A memory of Grief-- Like a great Silence brooded o'er the place; And men breathed hard, as seeking for relief From an emotion strong That would not cry, though held in check too long.

One felt that joy drew near-- A joy intense that seemed itself to fear-- Brightening in eyes that had been dull, As all with feeling gazed Upon the Strasburg figure, raised Above us--mourning, beautiful!

Then one stood at the statue's base, and spoke-- Men needed not to ask what word; Each in his breast the message heard, Writ for him by Despair, That evermore in moving phrase Breathes from the Invalides and Père Lachaise-- Vainly it seemed, alas! But now, France looking on the image there, Hope gave her back the lost Alsace.

A deeper hush fell on the crowd: A sound--the lightest--seemed too loud (Would, friend, you had been there!) As to that form the speaker rose, Took from her, fold on fold, The mournful crape, gray-worn and old, Her, proudly, to disclose, And with the touch of tender care That fond emotion speaks, 'Mid tears that none could quite command, Placed the Tricolor in her hand, And kissed her on both cheeks!

Florence Earle Coates

TO FRANCE

What is the gift we have given thee, Sister? What is the trust we have laid in thy hand? Hearts of our bravest, our best, and our dearest, Blood of our blood we have sown in thy land.

What for all time will the harvest be, Sister? What will spring up from the seed that is sown? Freedom and peace and goodwill among Nations, Love that will bind us with love all our own.

Bright is the path, that is opening before us, Upward and onward it mounts through the night; Sword shall not sever the bonds that unite us Leading the world to the fullness of light.

Sorrow hath made thee more beautiful, Sister, Nobler and purer than ever before; We who are chastened by sorrow and anguish Hail thee as sister and queen evermore.

Frederick George Scott

QUI VIVE?

Qui vive? Who passes by up there? Who moves--what stirs in the startled air? What whispers, thrills, exults up there? Qui vive? "The Flags of France."

What wind on a windless night is this, That breathes as light as a lover's kiss, That blows through the night with bugle notes, That streams like a pennant from a lance, That rustles, that floats? "The Flags of France."

What richly moves, what lightly stirs, Like a noble lady in a dance, When all men's eyes are in love with hers And needs must follow? "The Flags of France."

What calls to the heart--and the heart has heard, Speaks, and the soul has obeyed the word, Summons, and all the years advance, And the world goes forward with France--with France? Who called? "The Flags of France."

What flies--a glory, through the night, While the legions stream--a line of light, And men fall to the left and fall to the right, But they fall not? "The Flags of France."

Qui vive? Who comes? What approaches there? What soundless tumult, what breath in the air Takes the breath in the throat, the blood from the heart? In a flame of dark, to the unheard beat Of an unseen drum and fleshless feet, Without glint of barrel or bayonets' glance, They approach--they come. Who comes? (Hush! Hark!) "Qui vive?" "The Flags of France."

Uncover the head and kneel--kneel down, A monarch passes, without a crown, Let the proud tears fall but the heart beat high: The Greatest of All is passing by, On its endless march in the endless Plan: "Qui vive?" "The Spirit of Man."

"O Spirit of Man, pass on! Advance!" And they who lead, who hold the van? Kneel down! The Flags of France.

Grace Ellery Channing

Paris, 1917

TO THE BELGIANS

O Race that Caesar knew, That won stern Roman praise, What land not envies you The laurel of these days?

You built your cities rich Around each towered hall,-- Without, the statued niche, Within, the pictured wall.

Your ship-thronged wharves; your marts With gorgeous Venice vied. Peace and her famous arts Were yours: though tide on tide

Of Europe's battle scourged Black field and reddened soil, From blood and smoke emerged Peace and her fruitful toil.