War's horror at its worst, the seeds of change
Darkly at work for nations, churches, kings,
What is there in an old man's death so strange
To give it rank among eventful things?
Nor king is he, nor president, nor pope;
He holds nor sword of strength, nor keys of power;
Hangs on his life nor world-wide fear nor hope;
If he was e'er "the man," long past his hour.
Yet but one statesman's exit, and no king's,
Could give such theme for thought, and, tongue, and pen,
As this small eighty-years-old bourgeois' brings
The lightest hearts, and quickest wits, of men.
France, save the fraction that flings filth for flowers,
Utters one voice of sorrowing regret
O'er him who gave her his long manhood's powers,
Whom death, at eighty, found her soldier yet,
Unbowed beneath the burden of fourscore,
Donning his armor for the self-same fight
In which, a stripling, erst the flag he bore
Of might enthroned in power, with law-based right.
What wonder France should sorrow so for him
Who scorned what she scorns, held what she holds dear;
Whose quick sense saw no truth, while it was dim,
Content to rest in half-truth, while 'twas clear.
The sharpest-shaping, keenest-biting wit
That kept alive the memory of Voltaire;
Most French of Frenchmen, apt with phrase to fit
The unspoken sentiment that filled the air,
So giving it the concrete life that moulds
A party’s purpose, people's mood, to act;
Finding, at need, the wanted word that holds
A nation's fancy, till it turns to fact.
Against such gifts, what was it that his pen
At times postponed harsh truth to happy phrase?
If, when he ministered as chief of men,
The statesman grasped at times the meaner praise
Of winning cleverly, than on the square?
The jury he appealed to were his peers;
His history was their legend, written fair;
His spice of false won for his truth their ears.
Nor only France he glassed, in fleck and flaw;
From youth he was the soldier-sworn of right
Set in the adamantine bounds of law,
For that was first, would have been last, to fight.
And therefore France, once more upon the verge
Of that sad war 'tis still her fate to wage,
'Twixt might with power, right with but law to urge,
Took him for champion even in his age.
Prone as she is good service to forget,
And fickle in her favor, as they say,
Still in her heart she bore the man who set
Weakness aside, and cast old age away,
Posting the world to raise her up a friend;
Then, harder task, subdued his wrath and shame,
His conquered country's interest to defend,
And melt her conquerors to milder frame.
Who, when concession’s utmost boon was wrung,
Despaired not of his country, stricken low,
Beaten and bleeding, but her nerves re-strung
In tune to his, weak wailing to forego;
With hardness to endure, war's debt to pay,
And peace's work with heart and hope set to,
To earn the ransom she had wealth to pay,
And envy of her conquerors thereto.
For this she mourns him — lays upon his bier
Tribute of common grief, the civic crown;
And holds this little bourgeois, henceforth, dear,
Among her great ones to the dead gone down.
