Place de la Concorde

Since the bombardment of Strasburg, August 14, 1870, her statue in Paris, representing Alsace, has been draped in mourning by the French people.

NEAR where the royal victims fellIn days gone by, caught in the swellOf a ruthless tideOf human passion, deep and wide:There where we twoA Nation's later sorrow knew,—To-day, O friend! I stoodAmid a self-ruled multitudeThat by nor sound nor wordBetrayed how mightily its heart was stirred.

A memory Time never could efface—A memory of grief—Like a great Silence brooded o'er the place;And men breathed hard, as seeking for reliefFrom an emotion strongThat would not cry, though held in check too long.One felt that joy drew near,—A joy intense that seemed itself to fear,—Brightening in eyes that had been dull,As all with feeling gazedUpon the Strasburg figure, raisedAbove us,—mourning, beautiful!

Then one stood at the statue's base, and spoke—Men needed not to ask what word;Each in his breast the message heard,Writ for him by Despair,That evermore in moving phraseBreathes from the Invalides and Père-Lachaise,—Vainly it seemed, alas!But now, France, looking on the image there,Hope gave her back the lost Alsace.

A deeper hush fell on the crowd:A sound—the lightest—seemed too loud(Would, friend, you had been there!)As to that form the speaker rose,Took from her, fold on fold,The mournful crape, gray-worn and old,Her, proudly, to disclose,And with the touch of tender careThat fond emotion speaks,Mid tears that none could quite command,Placed the Tricolour in her hand,And kissed her on both cheeks!