POETRY.
THE PRUSSIANS AT ST. DENIS.
In the Church of St. Denis
Lay the men who made this realm ; Some with charts of liberty, Might of sword or strength of helm ; And the good or ill they did, Writ and balanced up above With the Story of the Cid, Or of Alfred, England's love !
The lifetime of a man Bath scarcely passed away, Since that great change began Which they called the People's Day. Its evening set in blood, Though its dawn was fair to see ; And they trampled into mud All the Dust of St. Denis!
Empty the prayer-built grave Of St. Louis, blessed of God ; Hand of Henry, wise and brave, Stamped in thecommon sod. Flung out the perfumed dust (Embalmed in royal state) Of that Louis whom we must, With all his faults, call great I Oh ! dear land of my love I Oh I country of my son !
Has the German tramped above Thine ancient roots undone? Have I lived to see him guard With sheathed sword at his knee, And a fair face, marble-hard, Your Church of St. Denis?
Had your Kings been sleeping there, (Though you scorn them sore to-day 1) Each had risen from his lair Like an angry beast at bay.
Hear the Henries' angry call As they muster to a man Would a Louis of them all Have been netted at Sedan ?
Grave peasants of the plain, Bourgeois of cities gray, Count, when you count your gain, How much you've thrown away,—
Your parliaments and charts, Sound roots of liberty, To find, God save our hearts Prussians at St. Denis
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