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Poem	(From the French of Emile Verhaeren) He who walks through the meadows of Champagne At noon in Fall, when leaves like gold appear, Sees it draw near Like some great mountain set upon the plain, From radiant dawn until the close of day, Nearer it grows To him who goes Across the country. When tall towers lay Their shadowy pall Upon his way, He enters, where The solid stone is hollowed deep by all Its centuries of beauty and of prayer. Ancient French temple! thou whose hundred kings Watch over thee, emblazoned on thy walls, Tell me, within thy memory-hallowed halls What chant of triumph, or what war-song rings? Thou hast known Clovis and his Frankish train, Whose mighty hand Saint Remy's hand did keep And in thy spacious vault perhaps may sleep An echo of the voice of Charlemagne. For God thou has known fear, when from His side Men wandered, seeking alien shrines and new, But still the sky was bountiful and blue And thou wast crowned with France's love and pride. Sacred thou art, from pinnacle to base; And in thy panes of gold and scarlet glass The setting sun sees thousandfold his face; Sorrow and joy, in stately silence pass Across thy walls, the shadow and the light; Around thy lofty pillars, tapers white Illuminate, with delicate sharp flames, The brows of saints with venerable names, And in the night erect a fiery wall. A great but silent fervour burns in all Those simple folk who kneel, pathetic, dumb, And know that down below, beside the Rhine -- Cannon, horses, soldiers, flags in line -- With blare of trumpets, mighty armies come. Suddenly, each knows fear; Swift rumours pass, that every one must hear, The hostile banners blaze against the sky And by the embassies mobs rage and cry. Now war has come, and peace is at an end. On Paris town the German troops descend. They are turned back, and driven to Champagne. And now, as to so many weary men, The glorious temple gives them welcome, when It meets them at the bottom of the plain. At once, they set their cannon in its way. There is no gable now, nor wall That does not suffer, night and day, As shot and shell in crushing torrents fall. The stricken tocsin quivers through the tower; The triple nave, the apse, the lonely choir Are circled, hour by hour, With thundering bands of fire And Death is scattered broadcast among men. And then That which was splendid with baptismal grace; The stately arches soaring into space, The transepts, columns, windows gray and gold, The organ, in whose tones the ocean rolled, The crypts, of mighty shades the dwelling places, The Virgin's gentle hands, the Saints' pure faces, All, even the pardoning hands of Christ the Lord Were struck and broken by the wanton sword Of sacrilegious lust. O beauty slain, O glory in the dust! Strong walls of faith, most basely overthrown! The crawling flames, like adders glistening Ate the white fabric of this lovely thing. Now from its soul arose a piteous moan, The soul that always loved the just and fair. Granite and marble loud their woe confessed, The silver monstrances that Popes had blessed, The chalices and lamps and crosiers rare Were seared and twisted by a flaming breath; The horror everywhere did range and swell, The guardian Saints into this furnace fell, Their bitter tears and screams were stilled in death. Around the flames armed hosts are skirmishing, The burning sun reflects the lurid scene; The German army, fighting for its life, Rallies its torn and terrified left wing; And, as they near this place The imperial eagles see Before them in their flight, Here, in the solemn night, The old cathedral, to the years to be Showing, with wounded arms, their own disgrace.
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