A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/A Flame (Charles Coran)
A FLAME.
Sportsmen overtaken by night, sportsmen all loaded with game,
By the old winding roadway back to the village we came,
But down there—what, what is that light?
One of us, a farmer, said:—'On the summit of the hill
It is Lucas the shepherd, he guards my flocks by the mill,
His fire of vine-branches burns bright.'
A churchwarden soon answered:—'Neighbour, your pardon and leave,
It's the moon which strikes on—for look, how clear is the eve—
The cock on our church-steeple's height.'
The proud mayor interrupted:—'No, no sir, it is not,
It's a torch of rebellion,—the low knaves brew a plot;
Ho! Gendarmes, shoot, shoot them outright'
'All errors, good sirs,'—said the master that taught in the school,
'Look how it is moving,—if it isn't Jupiter I'm a fool,
It's the planet that gleams on our sight.'
But I said low, low in my heart:—'It's a link or a brand,
And it gleams from the castle's high turret—held in the hand
Of a girl with cheeks red and white.'
Yes,—the beacon far streaming is an accomplice of Love,
It apprises the lover back from the chase, that his dove
Is watching to meet him at night.