II.
COLIGNY’S RESOLVE.
“And, if I perish!” the gray warrior said,—
“I perish still in France! If cruel foes
Beleaguer and ensnare
me to my fate,
The blow will fall upon me in the land
Which was my birth-place. Better there to die
The victim for my people, than to fly
Inglorious, from the struggle set for us
By the most cruel fortunes! Not for me
The hope of refuge in a foreign clime,
While that which cradled me lies desolate
In blood and ashes! It is better here
To strive against the ruin and misrule,
Than basely yield the empire to the foe,
Whose sway we might withstand; and whose abuse,
Unchecked, were but the fruitful argument
For thousand years of woe! I would not lay
These aged bones to sleep in distant lands,
Though pure and peaceful; but would close mine eye,
Upon the same sweet skies—by tempests now
Torn and disclouded—upon which gladly first
They opened with delight in infancy.
This fondness
, it may be, is but a weakness
Becoming not my manhood. Be it so!
I know that I am weak; but there’s a passion,
That glows with loyal anger in my heart,
And shows like virtue. It forbids my flight;
And, for my country’s glory, and the safety
Of our distracted and diminished flock,
Declares how much more grateful were the strife—
That proud defiance which I still have given
To those fierce enemies, whose sleepless hate
Hath shamed and struck at both. I deem it better
To struggle with injustice than submit;
For still submission of the innocent
Makes evident the guilty; and the good,
Who yield, but multiply the herd of foes,
That ravin when the retribution sleeps!
What hope were there for sad humanity,
If still, when came the danger, fled the brave?
Fled only to beguile, in fierce pursuit,
The wolfish spoiler, leaving refuge none,
In heart or homestead? Not for me to fly—
Not though, I hear, Eternal Sire! thy voice
Still speaking with deep utterance in my soul,
Commending my obedience. All in vain,
I strive to serve thee with submission meet,
And move to do thy will. The earth grows up,
Around me; and the aspects of my home,
Enclose me like the mountains and the sea,
Forbidding me to fly them. Natural ties,
That are as God’s, upon the mortal heart,
Fetter me still to France! and yet thou knowest,
How reverent and unselfish were my toils,
In this our people’s cause. I have not spared
Day or night labor; and my blood hath flowed,
Unstinted, in the strife that we have waged.
The sword hath hacked these limbs—the poisoned cup
Hung at these lips. The ignominous death,
From the uplifted scaffold, look’d upon me,
Craving its victim; the assassin’s steel,
Turned from my ribs, with narrowest graze avoiding
The imperil’d life! Yet never have I shrunk,
Because of these flesh-dangers from the work
Whereto my hand was set. Let me not now
Turn from the field in flight, though still to lead
The flock that I must die for! This I know!
I cannot always ’scape. The blow will come!
Not always will the poisonous draught be spill’d,
Or the sharp steel be foil’d, or turn’d aside;—
And to the many martyrs in this cause,
Already made, my yearning spirit feels,
Its sworn alliance. I will die like them,
But cannot fly their graves! I dare not fly,
Though death awaits me here, and, soft, afar,
Sits safety in the cloud and beckons me.”
III.
THE VOYAGE.
“And leave thy flock to perish?”—Thus the voice,
Reproachful to the patriarch.—“No,” he cried,
“They shall partake the sweet security,
Of the far home of refuge thou assign’st.
They shall go forth from bondage and from death:
The path made free to them, their feet shall take;
My counsels shall direct them, and my soul
Still struggle in their service. Those who fly,
Best moved by fond obedience,—with few ties
To fasten the devoted heart to earth,
And looking but to heaven;—and those who still,
With that fond passion of home which fetters me,
Prefer to look upon their graves in France,—
Shall equally command my care and toil,
Though not alike my presence. They who go forth
To the far land of promise which awaits them,
Mine eye shall watch across the mighty deep,
And still my succors reach them, while the power
Is mine for human providence; and still,
Even from the fearful eminence of death,
My spirit, parting from its shrouding clay,
Survey them with the thought of one who loves,
Glad in the safety which it could not share!”
Even as he said,—a little band went forth
Still resolute for God;—having no home,
But that made holy by his privilege;
Their prayers unchecked, their pure rites undisturbed,
They bending at high altars, with no dread,
Lest other eyes than the elect should see,
Their secret smokes arise.
To a wild shore,
Most wild, but lovely,—o’er the deeps they came;
Propitious winds at beck, and God in heaven,
Looking from bluest skies. From the broad sea,
Sudden, the grey lines of the wooing land,
Stretched out its sheltering haven, and afar,
Implored them, with its smiles, through gayest green,
That to the heart of the lone voyagers,
Spoke of their homes in France.
“And here,” they cried,
“Cast anchor! We will build our temples here!
This solitude is still security,
And freedom shall compensate all the loss
Known first in loss of home! Yet naught is lost,—
All rather gained, that human hearts have found
Most dear to hope and its immunities,
If that we win that freedom of the soul,
It never knew before! Here should we find
Our native land,—the native land of soul,
Where conscience may take speech,—where truth take root,
And spread its living branches, till all earth
Grows lovely with their heritage. From the wild
Our pray’rs shall rise to heaven; nor shall we build
Our altars in the gloomy caves of earth,
Dreading each moment lest the accusing smokes,
That from our reeking censers may arise,
Shall show the imperial murderer where we hide.”
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Charlevoix expressly says, speaking, however, of Charles IX., “qu’il fut fort aise de voir que M. de Coligni n’employoit à cette expédition que des Calvinistes, parce que c’étoit autant d’ennemis, dont il purgeoit l’etat.” Of Coligny’s anxiety in regard to this expedition and his objects, the same writer says: “Coligny had the colony greatly at heart. It was, in fact, the first thing of which the admiral spoke to the king when he obtained permission to repair to the court.”