Toward the Gulf Part 17

And there to take you in my arms and feel you In the glory of the dawn hour, Along the sinuous rhythm of flesh and fles.h.!.+

To know your spirit by that oneness Of living and of love, in the twinkled pa.s.sion Of life re-lit and visioned.

In dryad eyes beholding The dancing, leaping, touching hands and racing Rapturous moment of the arisen sun; And the first drop of day out of this cup of Favrile.

There to behold you, Our spirits lost together In the silence of the dawn hour!

FRANCE

France fallen! France arisen! France of the brave!

France of lost hopes! France of Promethean zeal!

Napoleon's France, that bruised the despot's heel Of Europe, while the feudal world did rave.

Thou France that didst burst through the rock-bound grave Which Germany and England joined to seal, And undismayed didst seek the human weal, Through which thou couldst thyself and others save-- The wreath of amaranth and eternal praise!

When every hand was 'gainst thee, so was ours.

Freedom remembers, and I can forget:-- Great are we by the faith our past betrays, And n.o.ble now the great Republic flowers Incarnate with the soul of Lafayette.

BERTRAND AND GOURGAUD TALK OVER OLD TIMES

Gourgaud, these tears are tears--but look, this laugh, How hearty and serene--you see a laugh Which settles to a smile of lips and eyes Makes tears just drops of water on the leaves When rain falls from a sun-lit sky, my friend, Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me, call me Beloved Bertrand. Ha! I sigh for joy.

Look at our Paris, happy, whole, renewed, Refreshed by youth, new dressed in human leaves, Shaking its fresh blown blossoms to the world.

And here we sit grown old, of memories Top-full--your hand--my breast is all afire With happiness that warms, makes young again.

You see it is not what we saw to-day That makes me spirit, rids me of the flesh:-- But all that I remember, we remember Of what the world was, what it is to-day, Beholding how it grows. Gourgaud, I see Not in the rise of this man or of that, Nor in a battle's issue, in the blow That lifts or fells a nation--no, my friend, G.o.d is not there, but in the living stream Which sweeps in spite of eddies, undertows, Cross-currents, what you will, to that result Where stillness shows the star that fits the star Of truth in spirits treasured, imaged, kept Through sorrow, blood and death,--G.o.d moves in that And there I find Him.

But these tears--for whom Or what are tears? The Old Guard--oh, my friend That melancholy remnant! And the horse, White, to be sure, but not Marengo, wearing The saddle and the bridle which he used.

My tears take quality for these pitiful things, But other quality for the purple robe Over the coffin lettered in pure gold "Napoleon"--ah, the emperor at last Come back to Paris! And his spirit looks Over the land he loved, with what result?

Does just the army that acclaimed him rise Which rose to hail him back from Elba?--no All France acclaims him! Princes of the church, And notables uncover! At the door A herald cries "The Emperor!" Those a.s.sembled Rise and do reverence to him. Look at Soult, He hands the king the sword of Austerlitz, The king turns to me, hands the sword to me, I place it on the coffin--dear Gourgaud, Embrace me, clasp my hand! I weep and laugh For thinking that the Emperor is home; For thinking I have laid upon his bed The sword that makes inviolable his bed, Since History stepped to where I stood and stands To say forever: Here he rests, be still, Bow down, pa.s.s by in reverence--the Ages Like giant caryatides that look With sleepless eyes upon the world and hold With never tiring hands the Vault of Time, Command your reverence.

What have we seen?

Why this, that every man, himself achieving Exhausts the life that drives him to the work Of self-expression, of the vision in him, His reason for existence, as he sees it.

He may or may not mould the epic stuff As he would wish, as lookers on have hope His hands shall mould it, and by failing take-- For slip of hand, tough clay or blinking eye, A cinder for that moment in the eye-- A world of blame; for hooting or dispraise Have all his work misvalued for the time, And pump his heart up harder to subdue Envy, or fear or greed, in any case He grows and leaves and blossoms, so consumes His soul's endowment in the vision of life.

And thus of him. Why, there at Fontainebleau He is a man full spent, he idles, sleeps, Hears with dull ears: Down with the Corsican, Up with the Bourbon lilies! Royalists, Conspirators, and clericals may shout Their hatred of him, but he sits for hours Kicking the gravel with his little heel, Which lately trampled sceptres in the mud.

Well, what was he at Waterloo?--you know: That piercing spirit which at mid-day power Knew all the maps of Europe--could unfold A map and say here is the place, the way, The road, the valley, hill, destroy them here.

Why, all his memory of maps was blurred The night before he failed at Waterloo.

The Emperor was sick, my friend, we know it.

He could not ride a horse at Waterloo.

His soul was spent, that's all. But who was rested?

The dirty Bourbons skulking back to Paris, Now that our giant democrat was sick.

Oh, yes, the dirty Bourbons skulked to Paris Helped by the Duke and Blucher, d.a.m.n their souls.

What is a man to do whose work is done And does not feel so well, has cancer, say?

You know he could have reached America After his fall at Waterloo. Good G.o.d!

If only he had done it! For they say New Orleans is a city good to live in.

And he had ceded to America Louisiana, which in time would curb The English lion. But he didn't go there.

His mind was weakened else he had foreseen The lion he had tangled, wounded, scourged Would claw him if it got him, play with him Before it killed him. Who was England then?--

An old, mad, blind, despised and dying king Who lost a continent for the l.u.s.t that slew The Emperor--the world will say at last It was no other. Who was England then?

A regent bad as husband, father, son, Monarch and friend. But who was England then?

Great Castlereagh who cut his throat, but who Had cut his country's long before. The duke-- Since Waterloo, and since the Emperor slept-- The English stoned the duke, he bars his windows With iron 'gainst the mobs who break to fury, To see the Duke waylay democracy.

The world's great conqueror's conqueror!--Eh bien!

Grips England after Waterloo, but when The people see the duke for what he is: A blocker of reform, a Tory sentry, A spotless knight of ancient privilege, They up and stone him, by the very deed Stone him for wronging the democracy The Emperor erected with the sword.

The world's great conqueror's conqueror--Oh, I sicken!

Odes are like head-stones, standing while the graves Are guarded and kept up, but falling down To ruin and erasure when the graves Are left to sink. Hey! there you English poets, Picking from daily libels, slanders, junk Of metal for your tablets 'gainst the Emperor, Melt up true metal at your peril, poets, Sweet moralists, monopolists of G.o.d.

But who was England? Byron driven out, And courts of chancery vile but sacrosanct, Despoiling Sh.e.l.ley of his children; Southey, The turn-coat panegyrist of King George, An old, mad, blind, despised, dead king at last; A realm of rotten boroughs ma.s.sed to stop The progress of democracy and chanting To G.o.d Almighty hymns for Waterloo, Which did not stop democracy, as they hoped.

For England of to-day is freer--why?

The revolution and the Emperor!

They quench the revolution, send Napoleon To St. Helena--but the ashes soar Grown finer, grown invisible at last.

And all the time a wind is blowing ashes, And sifting them upon the spotless linen Of kings and dukes in England till at last They find themselves mistaken for the people.

Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me--_tiens_!

The Emperor is home again in France, And Europe for democracy is thrilling.

Now don't you see the Emperor was sick, The shadows falling slant across his mind To write to such an England: "My career Is ended and I come to sit me down Before the fireside of the British people, And claim protection from your Royal Highness"-- This to the regent--"as a generous foe Most constant and most powerful"--I weep.

They tricked him Gourgaud. Once upon the s.h.i.+p, He thinks he's bound for England, and why not?

They dine him, treat him like an Emperor.

And then they tack and sail to St. Helena, Give him a cow shed for a residence.

Depute that thing Sir Hudson Lowe to watch him, Spy on his torture, intercept his letters, Step on his broken wings, and mock the film Descending on those eyes of failing fire. ...

One day the packet brought to him a book Inscribed by Hobhouse, "To the Emperor."

Lowe kept the book but when the Emperor learned Lowe kept the book, because 'twas so inscribed, The Emperor said--I stood near by--"Who gave you The right to slur my t.i.tle? In a few years Yourself, Lord Castlereagh, the duke himself Will be beneath oblivion's dust, remembered For your indignities to me, that's all.

England expended millions on her libels To poison Europe's mind and make my purpose Obscure or b.l.o.o.d.y--how have they availed?

You have me here upon this scarp of rock, But truth will pierce the clouds, 'tis like the sun And like the sun it cannot be destroyed.

Your Wellingtons and Metternichs may dam The liberal stream, but only to make stronger The torrent when it breaks. "Is it not true?

That's why I weep and laugh to-day, my friend And trust G.o.d as I have not trusted yet.

And then the Emperor said: "What have I claimed?

A portion of the royal blood of Europe?

A crown for blood's sake? No, my royal blood Is dated from the field of Montenotte, And from my mother there in Corsica, And from the revolution. I'm a man Who made himself because the people made me.

You understand as little as she did When I had brought her back from Austria, And riding through the streets of Paris pointed Up to the window of the little room Where I had lodged when I came from Brienne, A poor boy with my way to make--as poor As Andrew Jackson in America, No more a despot than he is a despot.

Your England understands. I was a menace Not as a despot, but as head and front, Eyes, brain and leader of democracy, Which like the messenger of G.o.d was marking The doors of kings for slaughter. England lies.

Your England understands I had to hold By rule compact a people drunk with rapture, And torn by counter forces, had to fight The royalists of Europe who beheld Their peoples feverish from the great infection, Who hoped to stamp the plague in France and stop Its spread to them. Your England understands.

Save Castlereagh and Wellington and Southey.

But look you, sir, my roads, ca.n.a.ls and harbors, My schools, finance, my code, the manufactures Arts, sciences I builded, democratic Triumphs which I won will live for ages-- These are my witnesses, will testify Forever what I was and meant to do.

The ideas which I brought to power will stifle All royalty, all feudalism--look They live in England, they illuminate America, they will be faith, religion For every people--these I kindled, carried Their flaming torch through Europe as the chief Torch bearer, soldier, representative."

You were not there, Gourgaud--but wait a minute, I choke with tears and laughter. Listen now: Sir Hudson Lowe looked at the Emperor Contemptuous but not the less bewitched.

And when the Emperor finished, out he drawled "You make me smile." Why that is memorable: It should be carved upon Sir Hudson's stone.

He was a prophet, founder of the sect Of smilers and of laughers through the world, Smilers and laughers that the Emperor Told every whit the truth. Look you at Europe, What were it in this day except for France, Napoleon's France, the revolution's France?

What will it be as time goes on but peoples Made free through France?

I take the good and ill, Think over how he lounged, lay late in bed, Spent long hours in the bath, counted the hours, Pale, broken, wracked with pain, insulted, watched, His child torn from him, Josephine and wife Silent or separate, waiting long for death, Looking with filmed eyes upon his wings Broken, upon the rocks stretched out to gain A little sun, and crying to the sea With broken voice--I weep when I remember Such things which you and I from day to day Beheld, nor could not mitigate. But then There is that night of thunder, and the dawning And all that day of storm and toward the evening He says: "Deploy the eagles!" "Onward!" Well, I leave the room and say to Steward there: "The Emperor is dead." That very moment A crash of thunder deafened us. You see A great age boomed in thunder its renewal-- Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me, friend.