There stood I in the Camp. 'Twas when the setting sun Was crimsoning the tents of the Hussars. The booming of the Evening-gun Broke on mine ear. A few stray stars Shone out, like silverblank medallions Paving a sapphire floor. Then flowed in unison the tones Of many hautboys, bugles, drums, trombones, And fifes, from twenty-two battalions. They played, "Give glory unto God our Lord!" A solemn strain of music and sublime, That bade Imagination hail a coming time, When universal Mind shall break the slaying sword, And Sin and Wrong and Suffering shall depart An Earth which Christian love shall turn to Heaven. A dream!-yet still I listened, and my heart Grew tranquil as that Summer-even. But soon uprose pale Hecate-she who trances The skies with deathly light. Her beams fell wan, but mild, On the long lines of tents, on swords and lances, And on the pyramids of musquets piled Around. Then sped from rank to rank The signal-order, "Tzako ab!" The music ceased to play. The stillness of the grave ensued. I turned away. Again my memory's tablets showed a saddening blank! Meanwhile another sort of scene Was acted at the Outposts. Carelessly I strolled, In quest of certain faces, into the Canteen. Here wine and brandy, hot or cold, Passed round. At one long table Fredericks-d'or Glittered à qui mieux mieux with epaulettes, And, heedless of the constant call, "Who sets?" Harpwomen played and sang old ballads by the score. I sought an inner chamber. Here sat some Dragoons and Yagers, who conversed, or gambled, Or drank. The dice-box rattled on a drum. I chose a seat apart. My speculations rambled. Scarce even a passive listener or beholder, I mused: "Give glory-" "Qui en veut?"-The sound Came from the drum-head. I had half turned round When some one touched me on the shoulder. "Ha!-is it you?" "None other." "Well!-what news? How goes it in Mulhausen?" Queries without end Succeed, and I reply as briefly as I chuse. An hour flies by. "Now then, adieu, my friend!" "Stay!-tell me-" "Quick! I am off to Rouge et Noir."- "Well-one short word, and then Good Night!- Grabbe?"-"Grabbe? He is dead. Wait: let me see. Ay, right! We buried him on Friday last. Bon soir!" An icy thrill ran through my veins. Dead! Buried! Friday last!-and here!-His grave Profaned by vulgar feet! Oh, Noble, Gifted, Brave! Bard of The Hundred Days-was this to be thy fate indeed? I wept; yet not because Life's galling chains No longer bound thy spirit to this barren earth; I wept to think of thy transcendent worth And genius-and of what had been their meed! I wandered forth into the spacious Night, Till the first feelings of my heart had spent Their bitterness. Hours passed. There was an Uhlan tent At hand. I entered. By the moon's blue light I saw some arms and baggage and a heap Of straw. Upon this last I threw My weary limbs. In vain! The moanful night-winds blew About my head and face, and Memory banished Sleep. All night he stood, as I had seen him last, Beside my couch. Had he indeed forsaken The tomb? Or, did I dream, and should I waken? My thoughts flowed like a river, dark and fast. Again I gazed on that columnar brow: "Deserted House! of late so bright with vividest flashes Of Intellect and Passion, can it be that thou Art now a mass of sparkless ashes? "Those ashes once were watch-fires, by whose gleams The glories of the Hohenstauffen race, And Italy's shrines, and Greece's hallowed streams Stood variously revealed-now, softly, as the face Of Night illumined by her silver Lamp- Now, burning with a deep and living lustre, Like the high beacon-lights that stud this Camp, Here, far apart,-there, in a circular cluster. "This Camp! Ah, yes! methinks it images well What thou hast been, thou lonely Tower!- Moonbeams and lamplight mingled-the deep choral swell Of Music in her peals of proudest power, And then-the tavern dice-box rattle! The Grand and the Familiar fought Within thee for the mastery; and thy depth of thought And play of wit made every conflict a drawn battle! "And, oh! that such a mind, so rich, so overflowing With ancient lore and modern phantasy, And prodigal of its treasures as a tree Of golden leaves when Autumn winds are blowing, That such a mind, made to illume and glad All minds, all hearts, should have itself become Affliction's chosen Sanctuary and Home!- This is in truth most marvellous and sad! "Alone the Poet lives-alone he dies. Cain-like, he bears the isolating brand Upon his brow of sorrow. True, his hand Is pure from blood-guilt, but in human eyes His is a darker crime than that of Cain,- Rebellion against Social Wrong and Law!" Groaning, at length I slept, and in my dreams I saw The ruins of a Temple on a desolate plain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BIRTH OF VENUS by HAYDEN CARRUTH PRIMROSE by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS SOLUTIONS by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN A BOOK OF AIRS SONG 18 by THOMAS CAMPION THESEUS by THOMAS STURGE MOORE HUGH SELWYN MAUBERLEY: 1. E.P. ODE POUR L'ELECTION DE SON SEPULCHRE by EZRA POUND |