(1848-)
Paul Déroulède
aul Déroulède received his education in Paris, where he was born. In accordance with the wishes of his friends, he was educated for the law; but before even applying for admission to the bar he yielded to the poetic instinct that had been strong in him since boyhood, and began, under the name of Jean Rebel, to send verses to the Parisian periodicals. When only twenty-three years of age he wrote for the Académie Française a one-act drama in verse, 'Juan Strenner,' which however was not a success. The outbreak of the Franco-Prussian war in the same year roused his martial spirit; he enlisted, and at once entered active service, in which he distinguished himself by acts of signal bravery. A wound near the close of the hostilities took him from the field; and it was during the retirement thus enforced that he wrote the lyrics, 'Songs of the Soldier,' that first made him famous throughout his native country.
Not since the days of the 'Marseillaise' had the fighting spirit of the French people found such sympathetic expression; his songs were read and sung all over the country; they received the highest honor of the Academy, and their popularity continued after peace was declared, nearly one hundred and fifty editions having been exhausted up to 1895. Déroulède now devoted himself to literature and politics. 'New Songs of the Soldier' and a volume of 'Songs of the Peasant,' almost as popular as the war songs, were interspersed with two more dramatic works, also in verse, one of which, 'L'Hetman,' was received on the stage with great favor. A cantata, 'Vive la France,' written in 1880, was set to music by Gounod. He also wrote a novel and some treatises dealing with armies and fighting, but his prose works did not attract much attention.
Déroulède's best verses are distinguished for their inspiration and genuine enthusiasm. Careless of form and finish, not always stopping to make sure of his rhymes or perfect his metre, he gave the freest vent to his emotions. Some of the heart-glow which makes the exhilaration of Burns's poems infectious is found in his songs, but they are generally so entirely French that its scope is limited in a way that the Scotch poet's, despite his vernacular, was not. The Frenchman's sympathy is always with the harder side of life. In the 'Songs of the Soldier' he plays on chords of steel. These verses resound with the blast of the bugle, the roll of the drum, the flash of the sword, the rattle of musketry, the boom of the cannon; and even in the 'Songs of the Peasant' it is the corn and the wine, as the fruit of toil, that appeal to him, rather than the grass and the flowers embellishing the fields.
THE HARVEST
From 'Chants du Paysan'
The wheat, the hardy wheat is rippling on the breeze.
'Tis our great mother's sacred mantle spread afar,
Old Earth revered, who gives us life, in whom we are,
We the dull clay the living God molds as he please.
The wheat, the hardy wheat bends down its heavy head,
Blessèd and consecrate by the Eternal hand;
The stalks are green although the yellow ears expand:
Keep them, O Lord, from 'neath the tempest's crushing tread!
The wheat, the hardy wheat spreads like a golden sea
Whose harvesters—bent low beneath the sun's fierce light,
Stanch galley-slaves, whose oar is now the sickle bright—
Cleave down the waves before them falling ceaselessly.
The wheat, the hardy wheat ranged in its serried rows,
Seems like some noble camp upon the distant plain.
Glory to God!—the crickets chirp their wide refrain;
From sheaf to sheaf the welcome bread-song sweeping goes.
Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by Thomas Walsh.
IN GOOD QUARTERS
From 'Poèmes Militaires'
Mirebeau, 1871
Good old woman, bother not.
Or the place will be too hot:
You might let the fire grow old—
Save your fagots for the cold:
I am drying through and through.
But she, stopping not to hear,
Shook the smoldering ashes near:
"Soldier, not too warm for you!"
Good old woman, do not mind;
At the storehouse I have dined:
Save your vintage and your ham,
And this cloth—such as I am
Are not used to—save it too.
But she heard not what I said—
Filled my glass and cut the bread:
"Soldier, it is here for you!"
Good old woman—sheets for me!
Faith, you treat me royally:
And your stable? on your hay?
There at length my limbs to lay?
I shall sleep like monarchs true.
But she would not be denied
Of the sheets, and spread them wide:
"Soldier, it is made for you!"
Morning came—the parting tear:
Well—good-by! What have we here?
My old knapsack full of food!
Dear old creature—hostess good—
Why indulge me as you do?
It was all that she could say,
Smiling in a tearful way:
"I have one at war like you!"
Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by Thomas Walsh.
"GOOD FIGHTING!"
From 'Poèmes Militaires'
The Kroumirs leave their mountain den;
Sing, bullets, sing! and bugles, blow!
Good fighting to our gallant men,
And happy they who follow, when,
Brothers in arms so dear, these go.
Yea, happy they who serve our France,
And neither pain nor danger fly;
But in the front of war's advance
Still deem it but a glorious chance,
To be among the brave who die!
No splendid war do we begin,
No glory waits us when 'tis past;
But marching through the fiery din,
We see our serried ranks grow thin,
And blood of Frenchmen welling fast.
French blood!—a treasure so august,
And hoarded with such jealous care,
To crush oppression's strength unjust,
With all the force of right robust,
And buy us back our honor fair:—
We yield it now to duty's claim,
And freely pour out all our store;
Who judges, frees us still from blame;
The Kroumirs' muskets war proclaim:—
In answer let French cannon roar!
Good fighting! and God be your shield,
Our pride's avengers, brave and true!
France watches you upon the field.
Who wear her colors never yield,
For 'tis her heart ye bear with you!
Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by Katharine Hillard.
LAST WISHES
From 'Poèmes Militaires'
A grave for me—a grave—and why?
I do not wish to sleep alone:
Let me within the trenches lie,
Side by side with my soldiers thrown.
Dear old comrades of wars gone by,
Come, 'tis our final "halt" is nigh:
Clasp your brave hearts to my own.
A sheet for me—a sheet—and why?
Such is for them on their beds who moan:
The field is the soldier's place to die,
The field of carnage, of blood and bone.
Dear old comrades of wars gone by,
This is the prayer of my soul's last sigh:
Clasp your brave hearts to my own.
Tears for me—these tears—and why?
Knells let the vanquished foe intone!
France delivered!—I still can cry,
France delivered—invaders flown!
Dear old comrades of wars gone by,
Pain is nothing, and death—a lie!
Clasp your brave hearts to my own!
Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature,' by Thomas Walsh.