A CHÂTEAU IN FRANCE.
Artists reared it in courtly ages;
Watteau and Fragonard limned its walls;
Powdered lackeys and negro pages
Served the great in its shining halls;
Minstrels played, in its salons, stately
Minuets for a jewelled king,
And radiant gallants bowed sedately
To lovely Pompadours curtseying.
Pigeons cooed in its dovecots shady;
Down in the rose-walk fountains played;
Many a lovelorn lord and lady
Here in the moonlight sighed and strayed;
Here was beauty and love and laughter,
Splendour and eminence bravely won;
But now two walls and a blackened rafter
Grimly tell the tale of the Hun.
My lady's chamber is dust and ashes;
The painted salons are charred with fire;
The dovecot pitted with shrapnel splashes,
The park a tangle of trench and wire;
Shell-holes yawn in the ferns and mosses;
Stripped and torn is the avenue;
Down in the rose-walk humble crosses
Grow where my lady's roses grew.
Yet in the haunted midnight hours,
When star-shells droop through the shattered trees,
Steal they back to their ancient bowers,
Beau Brocade and his Belle Marquise?
Greatly loving and greatly daring—
Fancy, perhaps, but the fancy grips,
For a junior subaltern woke up swearing
That a gracious lady had kissed his lips.