Thiers

FATE summoned, in gray-bearded age, to act

A history stranger than his written fact,

Him who portrayed the splendor and the gloom

Of that great hour when throne and altar fell

With long death-groan which still is audible.

He, when around the walls of Paris rung

The Prussian bugle like the blast of doom,

And every ill which follows unblest war

Maddened all France from Finistère to Var,

The weight of fourscore from his shoulders flung,

And guided Freedom in the path he saw

Lead out of chaos into light and law,

Peace, not imperial, but republican,

And order pledged to all the Rights of Man.

II.

Death called him from a need as imminent

As that from which the Silent William went

When powers of evil, like the smiting seas

On Holland’s dikes, assailed her liberties.

Sadly, while yet in doubtful balance hung

The weal and woe of France, the bells were rung

For her lost leader. Paralyzed of will,

Above his bier the hearts of men stood still.

Then, as if set to his dead lips, the horn

Of Roland wound once more to rouse and warn,

The old voice filled the air! His last brave word

Not vainly France to all her boundaries stirred.

Strong as in life, he still for Freedom wrought,

As the dead Cid at red Toloso fought.

1877.