  In the fair days when God By man as godlike trod, And each alike was Greek, alike was free, God's lightning spared, they said, Alone the happier head Whose laurels screened it; fruitless grace for thee, To whom the high gods gave of right Their thunders and their laurels and their light. Sunbeams and bays before Our master's servants wore, For these Apollo left in all men's lands; But far from these ere now And watched with jealous brow Lay the blind lightnings shut between God's hands, And only loosed on slaves and kings The terror of the tempest of their wings. Born in those younger years That shone with storms of spears And shook in the wind blown from a dead world's pyre, When by her back-blown hair Napoleon caught the fair And fierce Republic with her feet of fire, And stayed with iron words and hands Her flight, and freedom in a thousand lands: Thou sawest the tides of things Close over heads of kings, And thine hand felt the thunder, and to thee Laurels and lightnings were As sunbeams and soft air Mixed each in other, or as mist with sea Mixed, or as memory with desire, Or the lute's pulses with the louder lyre. For thee man's spirit stood Disrobed of flesh and blood, And bare the heart of the most secret hours; And to thine hand more tame Than birds in winter came High hopes and unknown flying forms of powers, And from thy table fed, and sang Till with the tune men's ears took fire and rang. Even all men's eyes and ears With fiery sound and tears Waxed hot, and cheeks caught flame and eyelid light, At those high songs of thine That stung the sense like wine, Or fell more soft than dew or snow by night, Or wailed as in some flooded cave Sobs the strong broken spirit of a wave. But we, our master, we Whose hearts, uplift to thee, Ache with the pulse of thy remembered song, We ask not nor await From the clenched hands of fate, As thou, remission of the world's old wrong; Respite we ask not, nor release; Freedom a man may have, he shall not peace. Though thy most fiery hope Storm heaven, to set wide ope The all-sought-for gate whence God or Chance debars All feet of men, all eyes— The old night resumes her skies, Her hollow hiding-place of clouds and stars, Where nought save these is sure in sight; And, paven with death, our days are roofed with night. One thing we can; to be Awhile, as men may, free; But not by hope or pleasure the most stern Goddess, most awful-eyed, Sits, but on either side Sit sorrow and the wrath of hearts that burn, Sad faith that cannot hope or fear, And memory grey with many a flowerless year. Not that in stranger's wise I lift not loving eyes To the fair foster-mother France, that gave Beyond the pale fleet foam Help to my sires and home, Whose great sweet breast could shelter those and save Whom from her nursing breasts and hands Their land cast forth of old on gentler lands. Not without thoughts that ache For theirs and for thy sake, I, born of exiles, hail thy banished head; I whose young song took flight Toward the great heat and light On me a child from thy far splendour shed, From thine high place of soul and song, Which, fallen on eyes yet feeble, made them strong. Ah, not with lessening love For memories born hereof, I look to that sweet mother-land, and see The old fields and fair full streams, And skies, but fled like dreams The feet of freedom and the thought of thee; And all between the skies and graves The mirth of mockers and the shame of slaves. She, killed with noisome air, Even she! and still so fair, Who said "Let there be freedom," and there was Freedom; and as a lance The fiery eyes of France Touched the world's sleep and as a sleep made pass Forth of men's heavier ears and eyes Smitten with fire and thunder from new skies. Are they men's friends indeed Who watch them weep and bleed? Because thou hast loved us, shall the gods love thee? Thou, first of men and friend, Seest thou, even thou, the end? Thou knowest what hath been, knowest thou what shall be? Evils may pass and hopes endure; But fate is dim, and all the gods obscure. O nursed in airs apart, O poet highest of heart, Hast thou seen time, who hast seen so many things? Are not the years more wise, More sad than keenest eyes, The years with soundless feet and sounding wings? Passing we hear them not, but past The clamour of them thrills us, and their blast. Thou art chief of us, and lord; Thy song is as a sword Keen-edged and scented in the blade from flowers; Thou art lord and king; but we Lift younger eyes, and see Less of high hope, less light on wandering hours; Hours that have borne men down so long, Seen the right fail, and watched uplift the wrong. But thine imperial soul, As years and ruins roll To the same end, and all things and all dreams |
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