Their charges true, I'd find good reasons for you,- We do. The mind may seem to govern us, The first great laws of Nature: else, why should Must I now do? Can I be angry? Of youth not left me? I am old, and given to yet, Could I be coward enough to hunt to the grave To dream of that which was Susanna once? You shall not go to death. For I do need You, and could nigh forgive you. But The people! Ah! The people and the Law,"Tis they that press me. For myself I am Inactive, and should so prefer to be: For them I must do something. Something? What? No, I'll do nothing for their curséd laws. I would not have such penalties: they are Too barbarous; were made for the savage days Of a young race. Besides, is she not, as IV Susanna at a window overlooking the inner court Susanna- My life will set with the setting sun, and night These damask hangings and these cedar posts This furniture. The marble court shall no more They talk and laugh and skip about! They will Them more than I. Ah! nevermore to see Their satin arms about my neck! SAINT GENEVIEVE BY CHARLES PÉGUY Translated from the French by Elizabeth S. Dickerman As once she kept the lambs at fair Nanterre, And as she watched in the mild evening air And when the night shall come to end the day, CHARLES PEGUY BY ELIZABETH S. DICKERMAN "The grandmother at the summit of her age In mother's arms, and often has she smiled Dreamed it will grow a noble personage, It was thus that the poet, Charles Péguy, conceived of St. Geneviève as she looked toward the future of that greater saint Jeanne d'Arc. "His great work," says Barrès, "was an attempt to express what we have to say of Jeanne d'Arc in 1914, to give form to the extraordinary abundance of sentiments to which this incomparable figure gives rise in the conscience of a cultivated Frenchman of today." But may he not have thought too of his own grandmother, a simple peasant who kept the cows and did not know how to read and write but "to whom," he said, “I owe all that I am. He tells us of his peasant ancestors, "vinegrowers, patient men who from the trees and bushes of the forest of Orleans and from the sands of the Loire, conquered so many acres of vineyard; men knotty as the roots of the vine, twining like its tendrils, fine like its twigs. Laborious people. It is because of them that I work so hard. Could I only write as they worked over the vines! And harvest sometimes as they used to harvest in good years! Could I only write as they talked!" This peasant boy went to the Sorbonne, studied the classicsGreek, Latin, French, and began to work another kind of fields, his fortnightly publications (Les Cahiers de la Quinzaine). "In his little printing shop opposite the Sorbonne he surveyed and criticised the great university. He seemed like an extraordinary school-master, a preacher of old France. In his short life, he found means to bring to flowering the forces of the peasant who tills his fields, the shopkeeper who counts over his money, the printer who does beautiful work, the curé who preaches to his flock and the army officer leading his men to duty." He died in the battle of the Ourcq in September 1914, the Lieutenant Charles Péguy, "arms in hand, facing the foe," so Maurice Barrès tells us. "He has entered the ranks of the heroes of French thought. His theme was moral grandeur, selfabnegation, the exaltation of the soul. It has been given him to prove in one moment the truth of his words . "Here lies the glory of young French letters. But it is more than a loss, it is a sowing; more than a death, an example, a word of life, a leaven. The French renaissance will draw strength from the work of Péguy, made real by sacrifice." THE HIDDEN WORD BY ANNE THROOP CRAIG Here in the woods where invisible maenads play Sounds here, and there, and mockingly away— Till one unwary drop of spray Caught like a meteor in a mortal glance Flashes its secret precious gleam by chance, For lucky eyes to see, And goes again Here where Joy walks with never an hour to speed,— The brown and purple hollows of the trees Are deep palimpsest with the wood bird's tune,— That pulse through dark on dark and hush on hush Along the hill the wind creeps, and the sun. -Those primeval syllables That stirred within the Ancient Mother's breast Silent and prescient of her Spirit-born,— He with the stars upon his forehead who should walk In mighty ways to speak the secret promise of her heart; For whom the sun and moon should be the candles of his chamber Lighting the shining letters of the Word! God spoke that Word once plain upon the hills, Only for men to lose it on their errant ways! -Yet in that time not wrathfuliy ne turned it from their ken |