Robert W. Service
Half-blind with blows the boy stood there; he seemed
to swoon and sway; Then in that moment woke the soul of little Jean
Desprez. He saw the woods go sheening down; the larks were
singing clear ; And O the scents and sounds of Spring, how sweet they
were! how dear! He felt the scent of new-mown hay, a soft breeze fanned
his brow; O God ! the paths of peace and toil ! How precious were
they now !
The Summer days and Summer ways, how bright they
were with bliss ! The Autumn such a dream of gold . . . and all
must end in this :
This shining rifle in his hand, that shambles all around ; The Zouave there with dying glare ; the blood upon the
ground ;
The brutal faces round him ringed, the evil eyes aflame ; That Prussian bully standing by, as if he watched a
game. Make haste and shoot/ the Major sneered; a minute
more I give; A minute more to kill your friend, if you yourself would
live/
They only saw a barefoot boy, with blanched and
twitching face ;
They did not see within his eyes the glory of his race; The glory of a million men who for fair France have
died,
The splendour of self-sacrifice that will not be denied. Yet ... he was but a peasant lad, and oh ! but life
was sweet . . .
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