Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, FRIEDRICH'S VOW, by JOHN LAURENCE RENTOUL


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

FRIEDRICH'S VOW, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Dusked and gathered the folds of the night
Last Line: By a lone far valley of fair lorraine.
Alternate Author Name(s): Gage, Gervais
Subject(s): Battleships; Blood; Death; Fights; Franco-prussian War (1870-1871); Mourning; Dead, The; Bereavement


DUSKED and gathered the folds of the night
On a hill moaned round by a hungry sea;
Its wailing blent with the call of the fight
That was borne on the wings of the wind to me.

And Innstrahull's red beacon-flare
Gleamed out, then died, on the darkling main:
The youth was comely, the maiden fair,
Their love and their beauty were their bane.

We parted there by the dreary shore,
The fierce war sundered my friend from me,
And the wild waves echoed, "Nevermore!"—
As the sun burned low on the rim of the sea.

With its fading flush on his face he passed,
Hoarsely said, as he grasped my hand,
"A farewell, Friend!—a long and a last,
I go to die for the Vaterland!—

"Where heart's blood drips for country's right:
The German Rhine shall at last be free!"
And chill on my hand was the clasp of the night,
I heard no voice save the sob of the sea!

Soh! battle on battle for weeks was won,
The world grew pale at the Uhlan's lance;
And the discrowned Corsican, all undone,
Gave up at Sedan the keys of France.

And the Red Prince swept, as a blighting breath,
Down on the valleys of fair Lorraine;
And, ah, for Friedrich's vow of death,—
And a mother and maiden that mourn the slain!

There! through the crash of the shot and shell,
Shearing the Nations' and Nature's pride,
In the rush of the battle he reeled, and fell,
Cried out "Vorwärts!"—and smiled, and died.

O, high heart, with the sword grasped tight,
Keen edged, in the firm unshaken hand,
Eager to dare in the front of the fight,
Where the blue blood flowed for the Vaterland!

Many a hero slept that day
Where the breath of the battle rocked the hill;
But none with more of the hero lay,
O smile most sweet, O sleep most still!

Many a lover reeled in the race
Of the rushing feet and the ringing cheers;
But never a brighter or fairer face
Drew forth man's pity or woman's tears.

Many a brother fought and fell
Where the guns rained death on the hill's dark brow;
But none by the friends that kenned him well
Has been missed and mourned for more than thou!

And the news sped west to an island home,
It knocked at a heart whose hope was high;
Its touch was chill as the Norland foam,
And the heart, at the tidings, yearned to die.

By darkling strand and lonesome fiord
A maiden moaned till night grew late;
And they spake to her never, O never, a word,
For they knew that the grief of her heart was great.

Ay! red through the gloaming the lights shall flare,
And fade into dark on the trembling sea;
And the vow for Vaterland to dare
It hath had no pity, O girl, on thee!

Morn after morn shall the bright day break
On the long lone gulfs of the yearning sea;
But the battle-call for country's sake
It hath reft the light of thy love from thee!

Day after day the noon shall shine
And glad the heart of the widowed sea;
But never, in all that woe of thine,
Shall thy lover's blue eyes beam on thee!

Eve after eve shall the daylight die,
And night creep lone on the darkling sea:
And the sound of its moaning shall be as a cry
Of the wraith of a hope in the heart of thee!

Kaiser, mumbling the thanks to God,
'Twould have saved my friend from the cold death-trance
Had ye struck the league when the Corsican's rod
Was broke at thy feet at the gates of France!

Corsican, smitten and all-discrowned,
Thy fall cannot waken the murdered dead!
The blood of the Peoples moans up from the ground,
The Curse of the Nations is on thy head!

Yet I swear by Magenta's crowning fight
One Folk, to the realm of the free restored,
The Godlike word "Forgive!" shall write
In Italy's tears on thy broken sword!

We shall think—when we gather in gay Portrush
And the blue sea sings on the same white strand—
Of his blue eyes' gleam and his brow's quick flush
As he swore, "I will die for the Vaterland!"

When the lone sun sinks in the western wave,
And the lone lights flare on the trembling main,
We shall think, O Friend, of thy grassy grave
By a lone far valley of fair Lorraine.





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