Jean Chouan
The Whites fled, and the Blues fired down the glade.
A hill the plain commanded and surveyed,
And round this hill, of trees and verdure bare,
Wild forests closed th' horizon everywhere.
Safe hold and rampart were behind the mount:
There the Whites halt, and their small numbers count.
Jean Chouan rose, his long hair floating free:
'None can be dead, since here our chief we see,'
They cried. Jean Chouan listened to the shot:
'Are any missing? No! Then tarry not,
But fly!' Around him women, children stood,
In terror. 'Sons, re-entering quick the wood,
Disperse yourselves!' As swallows scattering fly
On rapid wings when storms invade the sky,
They fled to thickets drowned in mist and shade,
And ran,—e'en brave men run when they're afraid.
Dread the disorder, when in trembling flight
Old men and infants at the breast unite,
Fearing or to be killed, or captive ta'en.
Jean Chouan, last, did with slow steps remain,
And often turned him back, and made a prayer.
Sudden, a cry within the glade you hear!
A woman 'mid a storm of bullets stood.
Already the whole band was in the wood;
Jean Chouan only stays. He turns, and sees
A woman burdened. Pale and weak, she flies;
Her naked feet, torn by the brambles, bleed;
She's all alone, and cries, 'To help me, speed!'
Jean Chouan mutters, ''T is Jeanne Madeleine.'
In line of shot, in middle of the plain,
On her the bullets with fierce fury pour.
Ah! God himself must bend the victim o'er,
And take her hand, and shelter 'neath his wing.
Death does such numerous darts around her fling,
She must be lost. 'There, help!' she loudly cries;
But fugitives are deaf, and fear denies.
The balls upon the helpless peasant ran.
Then on the hill which dominates the plain,
Jean Chouan bounded, manly, calm, and proud,
Dauntless. 'I am Jean Chouan!' called he loud.
The Blues cried, ''T is the chief!' and that brave form,
Engrossing all the thunder and storm,
Made Death his target change. 'Now take to flight!
He shouts; 'save yourself, sister!' Mad with fright.
Jeanne sped into the wood, her life to save.
Like pine on snow, or mast upon the wave,
Jean Chouan, whom death seemed to fascinate,
Drew up. The Blues see only him. 'I wait
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poem by Victor Hugo
Added by Poetry Lover
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