THE HEART OF FRANCE
O France, beloved; fickle, fearless France!
What heights are thine and what unfathomed depths,
From Roman old and Jupiter the great,
To Notre Dame and her eternal day.
Thy famous little “Ile de la cité,”
Birth place of Paris and a state renowned,
And buoyant bosom of thy ceaseless Seine
Were wronged by Vandal and the vicious Gaul,
Coveted long by kings, and last by cunning Kaiser.
Within, around thy growing heart, now gay,
Now sad, now brave and true, now sick and vile,
Epitome of man and race of men,
Foretaste of Heaven and prelude to Hell—
Thy lovers, far and near, have felt and fought,
O France, for thee, and for thy perfect day.
NOTRE DAME.
Thy Notre Dame of yore and now—behold
What records writ, and deeds unwritten more!
Begun as shrine to gods unknown, but feared,
Again the seat of power of the saints;
Both natal place and tomb of King and priest;
Dream attained of artist pioneer;
And pomp and rites as varied as striking grand,
Which brought the fathers from Jerusalem,
The Romish pope to altars, solemn, high;
When prayer, and priestly pride through chapels rang
With song of marching choir, from narthex bold,
And transept, double bay and nave and vault,
To over-topping spire, ambitious, firm—
What wondrous song from such exalted throng!
And laughing devils, perched on airy stage;
Stryge, with arms on parapet for ease;
Grim face upheld by hands of demon long,
Tongue out, and worn with everlasting sneer;
And leering ape, and nameless creatures; beasts
Obscene; and unclean birds of prey around,
Above thy true yet hybrid art; a cow,
Half woman, arms of her in comfort crossed,
With evil eye beholds the temples ’neath
St. Etienne, St. Jacque, and St. Denis,
The “Hotel Dieu,” Justice Palace, Law!
See hungry ghouls, and vampires, never sated,
Fiends eyeing Paris, gibing, mocking all;
And cat alive and wild, like devil dead
Revived, hath climbed on precipice of stone,
Creeping, howling, groaning, pained much;
Then plunging far, as if pursued by ghost.
And stories of the garden, curdling blood,
Of lunatic and felon’s leap to death—
The whole a hell around fair Notre Dame,
Her place and portion, part of thine, O France!
Alas, our boys—let angels weep—our sons
Who went to aid of thee, pure as the Virgin
Mary some, our soldier sons in air,
On earth, and underneath were tempted, caught
By countess cunning, rich but fallen far;
Entrapped, diseased by women, living hells,
That move and search and laugh and win and damn!
Indecencies of men—God save the race,
That human virtue may not die at last!
O France, all this is not thy nobler heart,
What love and honor thou hast ever shown;
What triumph for thyself, for us and all!
Thy virtue dieth not, nor truth, nor those
Inspired of Heaven through the ages past,
The now and evermore; these lofty hosts
And we, who love aright, will see thy soul,
All torn by vice and mocking devils, whole;
Triumphant over foes without, within.
Thy Notre Dame, thy little hells, O France;
The good and evil, working both—but God!