To the Emperor Frederick III.

Evening Star, Issue 7658, 7 July 1888, Page 2 (Supplement)

To the Emperor Frederick 111.

» [Translated from tho French of Francois CeppOe, by Henry Tyrrell.] Hail, Cesar ! count they but in days, or months, or years Thy life, the pale Fates three'.' For that thou hast no fears. Death hath no terror for the brave Death, whom thou oft hast faced apon ensanguined field. Thou dost not tremble now, but cantt as proudly yield, And tranquilly approach thy grave. From seaward Brittany to Russia's fart beat plain There is a prayer for thee in every heart humane. What consolation they can give Is thine-that all exclaim; even in Frauoe thy foes, To deep emotion stirred by thy lung, oruel throes, " Poor Emperor! ah, may he live." All—Frenchmen most of all; for in their rancor dread Kindness and chivalry are neither choked nor dead. Only half-way their hatred goes. They arm, 'tis true, and turn in thinking of the past; Yet, 'midst their bayonets, grim stalks that front war's blast, The tender flower of pity blows. Yes, victor of Sedan, now in thine anguish keen— Despite our soldiers slain, and while tho turf grows green On many a yet but recent moundIn thee we only see, to reverent feeling moved, A strong man suffering, husband and sire beloved, Whom, weeping, his most dear surround. I Sadden, to leave to thee empire and kingdom wide, The soldier Emperor, the aged William, died— The legendary conqueror. Almost a century old, he left to thee thine hour. Then did the world behold inspired by hidden power The dying prince—a king, and more. Ah, tragic moment ! Mute, by grievous wounds opprest, Fleeing the gentle South, the azure bay of rest Nestled beneath the mountain-wall, Where winter canaot frown, and pain is soothed to sleepThen earnest through storm and snow, passing ■the Alpine steep To thv chill northern capital. Thou, monarch on the throne, no syllable couldst gasp From out thy voiceless throat, clutched in the cancer's grasp. Yet, fettered so, there still could start One word—and that word, " Peaco !" traced with unfaltering pen; And by its magic thrilled, we heard the message then From thy torn throat, from thy great heart. Beside the brink of death, man does not falsely speak; And the hurt eagle—not the dove, by nature meekMost nobly bears the olive bough. We have believed thy word. Peaco is the dawning gray; And I, poet of Fiance, have dreamed a dream to-day. I would confide it to thee now. Thou saidst, as I dreamed, thus : "I have not long to live. To thy book, History, one leaf I fain would give, Such as ne'er yet was writ for thee. Only a single order, yet an order which shall "found A lasting reign of peace, witli countless blessings crowned. I die. I would immortal be. "For Germany is mad, and Frauce in frenzy raves. Their science, riches, thought and labor, all are slaves, Boond to a tyrant work of blood. To-morrow, it may be, a shot on the frontier, And war's old savagery renascent will appear, To Bweep o'er Europe like a flood. "Mine, then, shall be the hand to p,tay this fierce disaster; For I am still the king, the emperor, the master. I give commands, they aro obeyed. The treaty shall be torn whence spring these dread alarms. Give back Straeburg and Metz, then lay we down our arms. Then down our foe's arms shall be laid. " Germans! we will forsake our mournful conquest there. It is a painful wound that in our side we bear; Must it again reopened be ? To our proud neighbors offer the vows of peace divine! Thou hast thy ulcer, too, O Fatherland, like mine; There is at least a cure for thee ! "Wm's charnel odors seem to haunt me as I die. Oh, let the solemn words breathed with my latest sigh A peaceful bsnediction say ! Then all the cannon quelled by my poor faltering hand Not bronze enough can give for monuments to stand For him whose reign was but 8 day." Raptured, I beard. Alas !it was but a dream, no more. Thou art but one who sinks, pierced to the vital core, His anguish hiding, calmed to die. The old, the hateful pact thou hast not rent in twain, The hearts that leaped with hope in Alsace and Lorraine, In German thraldom rest for aye. For ayo? Perchance not so. Ere long the clarion call. Gorge the grim arsenals! Prepare, arm, labor -all! Glow, forges! Bright steel, harden blue! How stand they, neighbor, now, these armies, ours ar.d thine ? What! this the count complete—five million men in line ? Five million soldiers—it hj too few. Three leagues away the shell busts deadly from our guns. Tis not enough! Away 1 «w» yat more ponderous ones. Tho old artillery will not do. Only a score of balls hide in this rifle breech— We want more murderous arms —a hundred deaths in each, To quicker kill, and not so few. For in the fight to come, 'twill be exterminanation— Tho final, fatal clash. Famine and deso'ation Defying, we will spend our all. One of tho combatants-their Empire or our j France, { Sole victor must remain—e'en though at last, j perchance, j Across the vanquished corpse to fall. God! shall barbarity hold such appalling reigu? Thou eage and emperor—thou hast a heart humane; In thy words poace and wisdom lie. Hast thou vision bright, hope of deliverance, Snatched from the wistful gaze of those yet: true to France ? i Are thy last words to them: "For ayo " ? i In this hour, I to thee speak as a priest might. speak. j When thine all-knowing Judge thou, all to soon, shall seek, i What of vain wars by thee begun ? I Think of that silent hour, that stern and awful. eye, When balanced in the scale against thy sins shall lie I Only the laurels thou hast won! Ah, what calm joy were thine that presence to attain, | If upward from Alsace, and upward from Lorraine, f Heart-Messings should pursue theo there, From fervent hearts that mourned when the brave Kaiser died From whobe fond eyes turned from the sky to guide Their little coftorea's hand in prayer.