Classic Poem

Le vieux Sergent.

From his dearly loved daughter, who spins at his side,
All the pain of his wounds the old sergeant would hide;
And with hand that a bullet half useless has made,
Rocks the cradle wherein his twin grandsons are laid
Seated tranquilly there at the porch of the cot,
After combats so many such refuge his lot,
" Nay, to live is not all, " he repeats with a sigh,
" O my children, God grant you with honor to die! "

But what hears he? yes, yes, 'tis the roll of a drum!
A battalion he sees — in the distance they come:
Through his temples, grey-haired, the hot blood is astir —
The old racer responds to the prick of the spur.
But alas! in a moment he mournfully cries,
" Ah! the standard they carry seems strange to these eyes!
Yes, if e'er to avenge your own country ye fly,
O my children, God grant you with honor to die!

" Who, " pursues the old hero, " shall give us anew,
On the banks of the Rhine, at Jemmappes, at Fleurus,
Peasants, such as of yore the Republic could rear,
Sons who swarmed at her voice to defend her frontier?
Starving, barefooted, deaf to all coward alarms,
How they marched, keeping step, to seek glory in arms!
To retemper our steel the Rhine wave we must try —
O my children, God grant you with honor to die!

" How they glittered in battle, our uniforms blue,
Though their lustre was tarnished by conquest 'tis true!
Then how Liberty mixed with the grape-shot we poured
Sceptres broken in pieces, chains snapped by the sword!
Nations then, become queens by those triumphs of ours,
On the brows of our soldiers hung garlands of flowers;
Happy he who survived not that jubilee cry!
O my children, God grant you with honor to die!

" But such worth all too soon by our Chiefs was obscured;
To ennoble themselves, from the ranks are they lured:
And with mouths blackened still by the cartridge, prepare,
Basely fawning on tyrants, their homage to swear
Freedom, too, with her arms has deserted — they turn
From one throne to another, fresh prizes to earn:
And our tears flow as fast as our glory ran high;
O my children, God grant you with honor to die! "

Here his daughter, to soothe him, was fain to break in,
And in notes low and soft, without ceasing to spin,
Sang the airs now proscribed, that were wont with a start
To awaken all Kings, and chill Royalty's heart.
" People, " softly he murmurs, " ah! would that these songs
Might in turn — for 'tis time — bid you heed to your wrongs! "
Then repeats to the babes who yet slumbering lie,
" O my children, God grant you with honor to die! "