Classic Poem

I.

I SEE , in my fancy, a chamber,
In the chamber there stands a straw-bed,
And, naked and gleaming, above it,
A bayonet hangs at the head.

There enters, each evening, in silence,
A trembling old man, bent and gray;
He lays down his bag in the corner
With the victuals he begged through the day.

And then, with a sudden emotion,
The bowed one erects his white head,
O'er the face and the form of the beggar
Preternatural lustre is shed.

In silence he stalks to the bedside,
And, solemnly folding his hands,
His eyes on the bayonet fixes,
And so, in mute ecstasy stands.

Low words he now murmurs of battle,
Scarce audible, save when, by fits,
'Mid the flashing artillery's rattle
Is heard " L'Empereur — Austerlitz."

And still, at the name of the Emperor,
He bows down his head of white hair;
His crucifix — that is the bayonet, —
The Emperor — the God of his prayer.

II.

The evening devotions are ended,
The beggar's low chamber is cold,
He lays off his shoes and his kirtle,
— All torn, full of shot-holes and old.

And on the straw-bed, now, he stretches
His limbs for his nightly repose,
Then feels on the floor for his kirtle,
And lifts it and over him throws.

But scarce has he closed his old eyelids,
When dreams of past conflicts arise,
The tramp and the thunder of battle,
The cannons, the drums and the cries.

He sees the helmed regiments marching,
The horsemen and infantry sees, —
Then, suddenly, up starts the sleeper,
And falls, in the bed, on his knees.

He sees, in his dream, how the Emperor
On a foamy white charger rides by,
And waves with his hand to the soldiers,
Where the foemen are ready to fly.

And lifting his hand and down-snatching
The weapon that over him shines,
The grey-beard will follow his Emperor
Who sits and looks down on the lines.

And heavily, now, on the mattress
He plunges, — a shriek, and a smart! —
For the dreamer has rushed on the iron,
And the bayonet pierces his heart.

And ere the wild dream has quite vanished,
Death spins his dark web round his prey;
With the bayonet sheathed in his bosom,
In the red eye of morning he lay.

III.

The door of that chamber is opened,
Four hard-favored bearers appear;
Rough-hewn and unplaned is the coffin
They carry along on the bier.

No crucifix lies on the coffin,
No bier-cloth above it is spread,
No funeral bell is heard tolling,
No sentence of comfort is said.

There are dark brows, and talk of self-slaughter,
And the crowd shrink asunder with dread;
No eye drops a tear for the guilty,
None follows him to his cold bed.

The bearers move on with their burden,
They pass through the gate of the town;
On the place where the dead man shall slumber,
A cold mist comes drearily down.

In the church-yard's unsightliest corner,
Where, save thorns and thistles, nought grows,
By the crumbling old brick wall, where never
A grave-mound nor crucifix rose,

The bearers set down the rude coffin,
And hastily dig for the dead
A hole in the ground there — a deep one,
But a hard, ignominious bed.

And when they had ended, one laughing
Kicks off from the coffin the lid, —
When, suddenly, came the bright sun out,
Who, till now, in the clouds had been hid.

He shines down so glowing and golden
In the face of the dead, as he lay,
And graces his coffin with roses,
As if 'twere the judgment to-day.

He looks on the armor of iron —
By the side of the dead man it gleams;
And from the blank bayonet a fiery
And diamond-like radiance beams.

The churls doff their caps at the token;
" 'Tis the witness of Heaven," they said;
And a low Paternoster was spoken,
As they heaped in the earth o'er the dead.