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- Now spake the Emperor to all his shining battle forces,
- To the Lancers, and the Rifles, to the Gunners and the Horses; --
- And his pride surged up within him as he saw their banners stream! --
- " 'Tis a twelve-day march to Paris, by the road our fathers travelled,
- And the prize is half an empire when the scarlet road's unravelled --
- Go you now across the border,
- God's decree and William's order --
- Climb the frowning Belgian ridges
- With your naked swords agleam!
- Seize the City of the Bridges --
- Then get on, get on to Paris --
- To the jewelled streets of Paris --
- To the lovely woman, Paris, that has driven me to dream!"
- A hundred thousand fighting men
- They climbed the frowning ridges,
- With their flaming swords drawn free
- And their pennants at their knee.
- They went up to their desire,
- To the City of the Bridges,
- With their naked brands outdrawn
- Like the lances of the dawn!
- In a swelling surf of fire,
- Crawling higher -- higher -- higher --
- Till they crumpled up and died
- Like a sudden wasted tide,
- And the thunder in their faces beat them down and flung them wide!
- They had paid a thousand men,
- Yet they formed and came again,
- For they heard the silver bugles sounding challenge to their pride,
- And they rode with swords agleam
- For the glory of a dream,
- And they stormed up to the cannon's mouth and withered there, and died. . . .
- The daylight lay in ashes
- On the blackened western hill,
- And the dead were calm and still;
- But the Night was torn with gashes --
- Sudden ragged crimson gashes --
- And the siege-guns snarled and roared,
- With their flames thrust like a sword,
- And the tranquil moon came riding on the heaven's silver ford.
- What a fearful world was there,
- Tangled in the cold moon's hair!
- Man and beast lay hurt and screaming,
- (Men must die when Kings are dreaming!) --
- While within the harried town
- Mothers dragged their children down
- As the awful rain came screaming,
- For the glory of a Crown!
- So the Morning flung her cloak
- Through the hanging pall of smoke --
- Trimmed with red, it was, and dripping with a deep and angry stain!
- And the Day came walking then
- Through a lane of murdered men,
- And her light fell down before her like a Cross upon the plain!
- But the forts still crowned the height
- With a bitter iron crown!
- They had lived to flame and fight,
- They had lived to keep the Town!
- And they poured their havoc down
- All that day . . . and all that night. . . .
- While four times their number came,
- Pawns that played a bloody game! --
- With a silver trumpeting,
- For the glory of the King,
- To the barriers of the thunder and the fury of the flame!
- So they stormed the iron Hill,
- O'er the sleepers lying still,
- And their trumpets sang them forward through the dull succeeding dawns,
- But the thunder flung them wide,
- And they crumpled up and died, --
- They had waged the war of monarchs -- and they died the death of pawns.
- But the forts still stood . . . . Their breath
- Swept the foeman like a blade,
- Though ten thousand men were paid
- To the hungry purse of Death,
- Though the field was wet with blood,
- Still the bold defences stood,
- Stood!
- And the King came out with his bodyguard at the day's departing gleam --
- And the moon rode up behind the smoke and showed the King his dream.
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