of worship. The necessity of perfect disbelief in the incredible and ignoble for every soul that would attain to perfect belief in the noble and credible was never more clearly expounded or more loftily proclaimed. The fiery love and faith of the patriot find again and ever again some fresh glory of speech, some new splendour of song, in which to array themselves for everlasting; words of hatred and horror for the greed and ravin of the enemy and his princes
"who feed on gold and blood
Till with the stain their inmost souls are dyed;""
words of wrath and scorn for the renegade friends who had no word of comfort and no hand for help in the hour of the passion of France crucified, but were seen with hands outstretched from oversea
"Shaking the bloody fingers of her foes"
in the presence (as they thought it) of her corpse; words of living fire and light for love of the mother-land despised and rejected of men whose pity goes so far as to compassionate her children for the blush of shame to which their bitter fortune has condemned them, for the disgrace of being compelled to confess her for their mother:
"Ah! je voudrais,
Je voudrais n'étre pas Francais pour pouvoir dire
Que je te choisis, France, et que, dans ton martyre,
Je te proclame, toi que ronge le vautour,
Ma patrie et ma gloire et mon unique amour!"[1]
- ↑ 1 I may cite here, as in echo of this cry, the noble words just now addressed by the greatest of American voices to "the star, the ship of France, beat back and baffled long—dim, smitten star—star
