Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/348

But thou fell'st at last, Roland: the hills keep—oh, wonder!—
Thy bones, thy steps, thy voice, thy horn's deepest thunder,
And on their summits always new,
They show with clouds turbaned a Saracen gory,
His belt the cascade, and the scarf of his glory,
In sunshine the streamlet bright blue.

Our fathers bronzed by suns, by dust and gunpowder,
Died sword in hand, as cannon louder and louder,
Rolled wild o'er these rocks of old Spain!
Tell me, thou who saw'st them when they died side by side,
Were they great? Was our Emperor great, and allied
In fame to thy great Charlemagne?

Ah, if towards Eber some day passed over the border,
Our soldiers, guns, drums and steeds marching in order,
With our songs loud thundering in space,
Thou must rise up, old lion,—now be it, or later.
Great was Napoleon and thine uncle, but greater
Is Freedom with fair open face.