And meanwhile this death-odor--this corpse-scent Which makes the priestly incense redolent Of rotting men, and the Te Deums stink-- Reeks through the forests--past the river's brink, O'er wood and plain and mountain, till it fouls Fair Paris in her pleasures; then it prowls, A deadly stench, to Crete, to Mexico, To Poland--wheresoe'er kings' armies go: And Earth one Upas-tree of bitter sadness, Opening vast blossoms of a bloody madness. Throats cut by thousands--slain men by the ton! Earth quite corpse-cumbered, though the half not done! They lie, stretched out, where the blood-puddles soak, Their black lips gaping with the last cry spoke. "Stretched;" nay! _sown broadcast_; yes, the word is "sown." The fallows Liberty--the harsh wind blown Over the furrows, Fate: and these stark dead Are grain sublime, from Death's cold fingers shed To make the Abyss conceive: the Future bear More noble Heroes! Swell, oh, Corpses dear! Rot quick to the green blade of Freedom! Death! Do thy kind will with them! They without breath, Stripped, scattered, ragged, festering, slashed and blue, Dangle towards God the arms French shot tore through And wait in meekness, Death! for Him and You! VIII. Oh, France! oh, People! sleeping unabashed! Liest thou like a hound when it was lashed? Thou liest! thine own blood fouling both thy hands, And on thy limbs the rust of iron bands, And round thy wrists the cut where cords went deep. Say did they numb thy soul, that thou didst sleep? Alas! sad France is grown a cave for sleeping, Which a worse night than Midnight holds in keeping, Thou sleepest sottish--lost to life and fame-- While the stars stare on thee, and pale for shame. Stir! rouse thee! Sit! if thou know'st not to rise; Sit up, thou tortured sluggard! ope thine eyes! Stretch thy brawn, Giant! Sleep is foul and vile! Art fagged, art deaf, art dumb? art blind this while? They lie who say so! Thou dost know and feel The things they do to thee and thine. The heel That scratched thy neck in passing--whose? Canst say? Yes, yes, 'twas _his_, and this is his _fête-day_. Oh, thou that wert of humankind--couched so-- A beast of burden on this dunghill! oh! Bray to them, Mule! Oh, Bullock! bellow then! Since they have made thee blind, grope in thy den! Do something, Outcast One, that wast so grand! Who knows if thou putt'st forth thy poor maimed hand, There may be venging weapon within reach! Feel with both hands--with both huge arms go stretch Along the black wall of thy cellar. Nay, There _may_ be some odd thing hidden away? Who knows--there _may_! Those great hands might so come In course of ghastly fumble through the gloom, Upon a sword--a _sword_! The hands once clasp