Classic Poem

À M de Chateaubriand

Wherefore, Chateaubriand, thy country fly,
Her love, our incense, and our kindly keeping?
Dost thou not hear how France gives forth her cry,
" One star the less my brilliant skies are weeping? "

Where he may be the tender mother ponders:
Vexed by rude blasts that God alone can stay,
Poor as old Homer was, alas! he wanders,
And shelter asks at foreign hearths to-day.

Him, once proscribed, the Western World gave back,
Rich in his fame, our lengthened discords o'er;
A new Columbus in the Muses' track,
To us the treasures of new worlds he bore.

Pilgrim to Greece and soft Ionia's shore,
Then of the Circus and Alhambra singing,
He found us prompt his genius to adore,
Bowing to God whose praise his voice was ringing.

When from his land, that owed him many a lyre,
His own, self-exiled, went in tears away,
He paused 'mid wrecks of Empires, to inquire
If Frenchmen thither had not chanced to stray.

That was the epoch, theme for future story,
When the Great Sword smote nations with affright;
And, glittering brightly in the sun of glory,
Flashed back on us its dazzling rays of light.

Thy voice resounds, and sudden at thy lay
Youth's noble impulse flushes o'er my brow;
To way-worn bard I offer to repay
That maddening draught, with cup of water, now.

Wherefore, Chateaubriand, thy country fly,
Her love, our incense, and our kindly keeping?
Dost thou not hear how France gives forth her cry,
" One star the less my brilliant skies are weeping? "

He, who their throne religiously had propped,
Thought, when old Monarchs with their race returned,
To make them — Bourbons — as their child adopt
Freedom, who aye all ancestors hath spurned.

Alms did his Eloquence for those kings implore,
Bountiful Fairy, with her magic powers;
The more the rust on that old throne — the more
Round it she strewed her diamonds and her flowers.

Still, he bethought him of the rights we claim,
Whilst madmen shouted — " Lo! the skies are bright:
Off with this fellow; blow us out his fame,
Just as a torch is quenched at day's broad light! "

And wouldst thou truly share with them their fall?
Learn to what height their wild conceit would mount —
Amongst their griefs, to Heaven imputing all,
This, thy fidelity, the ingrates count.

Go, serve the people! Royalty upbraids
This kindly people — this, whom genius charms —
Who, flushed with conquest at the Barricades,
Bore thee, a trophy, in their maimed arms.

Serve them alone — for them my plea is meant —
Let swift return thy sad farewell succeed:
Holy the people's cause! great men are sent,
Envoys from Heaven, to aid them in their need.

Wherefore, Chateaubriand, thy country fly,
Her love, our incense, and our kindly keeping?
Dost thou not hear how France gives forth her cry,
" One star the less my brilliant skies are weeping? "