Poems (Curwen)/The Paris Disaster
The Paris Disaster.
O, France! grief-stricken land,
We tender thee,
In this dark hour of thine,
Our sympathy.
We tender thee,
In this dark hour of thine,
Our sympathy.
Truly, the flaming sword—
Death's fiery dart—
Has pierced gay Paris to
Her very heart.
Death's fiery dart—
Has pierced gay Paris to
Her very heart.
Thy children wept for ours,
Whom the sea toss'd
Upon thy shores—the dead
By Ushant lost.
Whom the sea toss'd
Upon thy shores—the dead
By Ushant lost.
And we, remembering still
That thou didst show
Such tender pity in
Our hour of woe,
That thou didst show
Such tender pity in
Our hour of woe,
Are fain to comfort thee
In thy sad loss,
To help thy children bear
Their fiery cross.
In thy sad loss,
To help thy children bear
Their fiery cross.
And so this day for thee
Our tears are shed;
For England mourns with France
Over her dead.
Our tears are shed;
For England mourns with France
Over her dead.
The dead—that brilliant throng
Of yesterday—
Whose blackened ashes wait
Burial to-day.
Of yesterday—
Whose blackened ashes wait
Burial to-day.
Truly, our mortal life
Hangs on a breath,
And in the "midst of life
We are in Death."
·····
Without the glorious hope
Of life beyond,
How could we live and bear
Life's broken bond?
Hangs on a breath,
And in the "midst of life
We are in Death."
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Without the glorious hope
Of life beyond,
How could we live and bear
Life's broken bond?