Classic Poem

Le sacre de Charles-le-Simple.

Frenchmen, to Rheims who thronging crowd,
Montjoie, St Denis! shout aloud!
The holy cruse with oil once more
Is filled; and, as in days of yore,
Sparrows by hundreds tossed on high
Through the Cathedral joyous fly —
Vain symbols of a broken yoke,
That from the king a smile provoke.
" Be wiser than ourselves; " the people cry —
" Look well, O birds, look to your liberty! "

Come, since old usages prevail,
From Charles the Third I'll date my tale
He, Charlemagne's successor, rightly
Was called the Simple, for unknightly
His course through Germany he wended,
No laurels gaining, when it ended.
Still, crowds his coronation throng:
Flatterers and birds have sung their song —
" No silly signs of joy! " the people cry —
" Look well, O birds, look to your liberty! "

In tawdry lace bedizzened bravely,
This king, who gulped down taxes gravely,
Walks 'mid his faithful subjects — they
Had, in a less auspicious day,
To rebel standard all adhered,
By generous usurper reared.
Their tongues some hundred millions buy —
A price for fealty none too high.
" We're paying for our chains; " the people cry —
" Look well, O birds, look to your liberty! "

At feet of prelates stiff with gold,
Charles's Confiteor is told;
He's robed, and kissed, and oiled; and next,
With hand upon the Holy Text,
Whilst sacred anthems fill the air,
Hears his Confessor whisper, " Swear!
Rome, here concerned, is nothing loath
To grant release from such an oath. "
" Mark, how they govern us! " the people cry —
" Look well, O birds, look to your liberty! "

In belt of Charlemagne arrayed,
As though just such a roystering blade,
Charles in the dust now prostrate lies;
" Rise up, Sir King, " a soldier cries.
" No, " quoth the Bishop, " and by Saint Peter,
The Church crowns you; with bounty treat her!
Heaven sends , but 'tis the priests who give;
Long may legitimacy live! "
" Our ruler's ruled himself; " the people cry —
" Look well, O birds, look to your liberty! "

This King, O birds, in wonders dealing,
Will now the scrofulous be healing:
But ye, who're all that renders gay
His wearied escort, haste away,
Or sacrilege you'll be committing,
As o'er the altar you are flitting;
Religion here plants guards — and hers
Just now are executioners
" Your wings we envy you, " the people cry —
" Look well, O birds, look to your liberty! "