Paris, December, 1870.
The Voice of the Night.
Arise, hollow-eyed and forsaken,1
Arise from dreams splendid and vain ;2
The dawn is at hand, to awaken3
Thy children to batt’e again,4
I wearied of passion and splendour ?5
there nothing but semblance and show ?6
Oh ! Paris, once true and once tender,7
Lament thy old nobleness now.8
Paris.
I am haunted, and a voice9
In the darkness cries aloud ;10
And the forms of bygone joys11
Across my eyeballs crowd.12
Strange whispers wake me—what is this ?13
Alas ! I dreamed that, as last year,14
Once more the passionate music-bliss15
Thrilled through me, and the past was here.16
Voice.
You drowned, in the whirl of your dances,17
A voice that would never be mute18
But dead are illusions and fancies,19
And hushed is the song of the lute.20
Gone, gone, is your holiday lover,21
And silent the hymn of your praise ;22
And only around you there hover,23
Accusing, the Spectres of days.24
Paris.
My children perish on my walls,25
My children perish for my sin ;26
No sound of music in my halls,27
No joy my palaces within,28
Without, the hosts expectant wait,29
My little ones with famine cry,30
My heart is broken with my fate :31
So let it break, and let me die.32
Voice.
You danced, with a gibe at things holy,33
A jest at things lofty and pure ;34
There was nothing but scorn for the lowly,35
But scorn for the poor who endure,36
Go, think of the years of your glory,37
Then make up the tale of your lost ;38
And on each battle field of your story,39
Count up, in your tears, what it cost.40
Paris.
I wake from dreams : the coloured veil41
Drops now, and all the world is gray ;42
Accusing woien, wan and pale,43
Weep where their children used to play.44
Forgive me, thou, best blood of France,45
Forgive thy mother’s sin and shame,46
Forget my teachings : so, perchance,47
Restore in time my trampled name.48
Voice.
Is there hope ? Look to suffer more sorrow,49
Make ready thy daughters for tears ;50
And for many and many a morrow,51
Weep still for the wasting of years,52
See, see, a new day ; but ’tis breaking,53
Beyond the close ranks of thy foe ;54
Oh ! bitter and sal the awaking,55
My Paris—arise to new woe.56