Poems By John L. Stoddard Part 33

The babies even laugh and crow, upheld in nurses' arms, And have no fear of trumpets loud, or the ba.s.s-drum's alarms.

The pavement of the boulevard is struck in perfect time; Six hundred echoes blend in one, and make the scene sublime; Six hundred hearts are throbbing there, imbued with martial pride; Twelve hundred feet with rhythmic beat make but a single stride.

United, too, are all the hearts of those whose eyes pursue With admiration every line now pa.s.sing in review.

But when a gallant regiment appears thus on parade, A little vain of its fine looks, and conscious of its grade, Each soldier, (since a time of peace allows him to be gay), Aspires to be attentive to the ladies on the way, And stares at every pretty face, with no wish to be rude, But, then, you know, a regiment is never quite ... a prude!

And this explains why Captain Short has said to Captain Tall, Despite the order which enjoins strict silence upon all,

"A lovely girl!" "Is that so? Where?" "Beside the window there."

"By Jove! I'd like to know her. She is divinely fair!"

Then both a little thoughtfully move on with some regret, And now the entire regiment the lovely girl has met;

Across the broad, resplendent ranks she looks now left, now right, Now straight before her, but as yet no smiles her features light; More than one mounted officer, with flashing sabre, wheels His well-groomed horse, and calls to him the sergeant at his heels; And makes excuse of some detail, endeavoring the while, Perhaps half consciously, to win the favor of a smile.

In vain; the glance he hopes to gain, as hero of her heart, Comes not; but rank forbids delay, he must at once depart.

The Colonel even has remarked this charming thoughtful girl, And gives to his fine gray moustache the customary twirl; A handsome man, with uniform whose gilded l.u.s.tre shines From clanking spur to epaulette with stars and golden lines; He knows how potent is the spell such ornaments impart To make of soldiers demi-G.o.ds in woman's gentle heart.

"The Flag! The Flag!" The crowd is thrilled to see it now advance!

Hail, Colors of the Fatherland! Hail, Banner of Fair France!

Hail, wounded emblem of the brave; blood-red, and heaven's blue, And purest white,--the n.o.ble Flag, now waving in our view!

Standard sublime, that moves all hearts, as now thy form unrolls, Our dead seem shrouded in thy folds, stirred by the breath of souls!

The color-bearer, young as Hope, and still a charming boy, In rhythm to the beating hearts and symphony of joy, Sways gently, as he bears it on, the emblem of a land Whose sons will in united ranks all enemies withstand.

The young lieutenant, on whose face the standard's shadow falls, Knows well it makes him pa.s.s admired between those human walls, And that its presence lifts him high above the rank and file, And gains for him a sentiment worth many a pretty smile.

"That girl has smiled", the Colonel thinks, "but on whom'? Who can tell?"

"It is the bearer of the flag, on whom her favor fell", Exclaims the Captain, who then adds, "Great Heavens! worse than this, She has not only smiled, but now she really throws a kiss!"

The Colonel, somewhat bent with years, sits up and swells his chest; "A charming girl" a sergeant cries, and tries to look his best; Each soldier, if a comrade laughs, a rival seems to fear; The chief of a battalion looks, and makes his charger rear.

While several soldiers thus a.s.sume an air of martial pride, The color-bearer, whom the band has quite electrified, Caresses with a trembling hand the down upon his lip, In doing which he rashly lets the tattered banner dip.

But she has seen within its folds, thus torn with sh.e.l.l and shot, The soul of one she dearly loved, who, dead at Gravelotte, Returned no more, but sleeps to-day within an unknown grave ...

The maiden's kiss was for the Flag, the death-shroud of the brave.

(Translated from the poem by Jean Aicard, ent.i.tled "Le Baiser au Drapeau".)

EMILY'S GRAVE

Idly one day in a foreign town In a churchyard's shade I sat me down By the side of a little cross of stone On which was a woman's name alone.

A cypress whispered in my ear That all was now neglected here; "Emily's Grave" was all I read; Nothing more on the cross was said; Neither a name, nor Bible verse, Nor date relieved the inscription terse,-- "Emily's Grave".

So strange this seemed, my blood turned cold At thought of a tragedy never told.

The flowers, the gra.s.s, and the humming bees Were blithe and gay in the sun and breeze, Yet no kind hand had ever strewn Sweet flowers, where only weeds had grown, And nothing brightened the lonely mound Whose edge was lost in the trodden ground.

At length to the churchyard gate I went, And asked of a woman old and bent, "Who was the girl, whose cross of stone Bears nothing save these words alone,-- 'Emily's Grave'?"

"Alas!" she answered, "many a year Hath pa.s.sed since I beheld her bier; She was young, and came from a humble nest, And credulous too, like all the rest; So a stranger met her here one day And caught her in his net straightway.

He said he was rich, and she should shine Like a queen in his castle by the Rhine, And, winning her love, he took her hence To where she found it was all pretence.

He had basely lied to the simple maid, And, wearying soon of a girl betrayed, Abandoned her; then home once more She came, to sink at her mother's door.

Of shame and grief she was quickly dead, For here she could no more lift her head; And her mother, wishing to efface All memory of her child's disgrace, Reared that small cross, to which she gave The t.i.tle only,--'Emily's Grave'".

(From the German.)

SERENADE TO NINON

Ninon, Ninon, what life canst thou be leading?

Swift glide its hours, and day succeeds to day; How dost thou live, still deaf to Love's sweet pleading?

To-night's fair rose to-morrow fades away.

To-day the bloom of Spring, Ninon, to-morrow frost!

What! Thou canst starless sail, and fear not to be lost?

Canst travel without book? In silence march to strife?

What! thou hast not known love, and yet canst talk of life?

I for a little love would give my latest breath; And, if deprived of love, would gladly welcome death!

What matter if the day be at its dusk or dawn, If from another's life our own heart's life be drawn?

O youthful flowers, unfold! If blown o'er Death's cold stream, This life is but a sleep, of which love is the dream; And when the winds of Fate have wafted you above, You will at least have lived, if you have tasted love!

(From the French of Alfred de Musset.)

THE RED TYROLEAN EAGLE

Eagle, Tyrolean eagle, Why are thy plumes so red?

"In part because I rest On Ortler's lordly crest; There share I with the snow The sunset's crimson glow."

Eagle, Tyrolean eagle, Why are thy plumes so red?

"From drinking of the wine Of Etschland's peerless vine; Its juice so redly shines, That it incarnadines."

Eagle, Tyrolean eagle, Why are thy plumes so red?

"My plumage hath been dyed In blood my foes supplied; Oft on my breast hath lain That deeply purple stain."

Eagle, Tyrolean eagle, Why are thy plumes so red?

"From suns that fiercely shine, From draughts of ruddy wine, From blood my foes have shed,-- From these am I so red."

(From the German of Senn.)

ANDREAS HOFER

In Mantua in fetters The faithful Hofer lay, Condemned by hostile soldiers To die at break of day; Now bled his comrades' hearts in vain; All Germany felt shame and pain, As did his land, Tyrol.

When through his dungeon grating In Mantua's fortress grim He saw his loyal comrades Stretch out their hands to him, He cried: "G.o.d give to you his aid, And to the German realm betrayed, And to the land Tyrol!"

With step serene and steadfast, His hands behind him chained, Went forth the valiant Hofer To death which he disdained,-- That death, which by his valor foiled Had oft from Iselberg recoiled, In his loved land, Tyrol.

The noisy drum-beat slackened, And silenced was its roar When Andreas the dauntless, Stepped through the prison door; The "Sandwirt", fettered still, yet free, Stood on the wall with unbent knee,-- The hero of Tyrol.

When told to kneel, he answered: "That will I never do; I'll die, as I am standing, Die, as I fought with you; Here I resist your last advance, Long live my well-loved Kaiser Franz, And with him his Tyrol!"

The soldier takes the kerchief Which Hofer will not wear; Once more the hero murmurs To G.o.d a farewell prayer; Then cries: "Take aim! Hit well this spot!