FROM the school-porch at Vannes
Weaponed, the children ran;
One little voice began,
Lark-like ascended:
‘Treason is on the wing,
Black vows, and menacing:
March, boys! God save the King!’
Allio ended.
Singing, with sunny head,
Battleward straight he led,
Stones for his captain’s bed,
Herbs for his diet:
He and his legion brave,
Trouble enough they gave!
Ere the Blues’ bullets drave
Them into quiet.
Spared, with a few as bold,
Once the storm over-rolled,
Allio, twelve years old,
Crept from the clamor;
Came, when the days were brief,
To the old desk in grief,
Thumbing anew the leaf
Of the old grammar.
Kings out!... rang the chime,
Kings in!... answered Time.
In his ignoring clime,
Silent, he studied;
Till, ere his youth was done,
For him, the chosen one,
Shepherd disclaimed of none,
Aaron’s rod budded.
Long, in unbroken round,
Peace on his paths he found;
Saw the glad Breton ground
Husbanded, quarried:
Blessed it, the record saith,
All the years he had breath,
Till the dim eightieth
Snowed on his forehead.