ROMAIN ROLLAND. PARIS, _June, 1919._ THE FORERUNNERS I ARA PACIS De profundis clamans, out of the abyss of all the hates, To thee, Divine Peace, will I lift up my song. The din of the armies shall not drown it. Imperturbable, I behold the rising flood incarnadine, Which bears the beauteous body of mutilated Europe, And I hear the raging wind which stirs the souls of men. Though I stand alone, I shall be faithful to thee. I shall not take my place at the sacrilegious communion of blood. I shall not eat my share of the Son of Man. I am brother to all, and I love you all, Men, ephemerals who rob yourselves of your one brief day. Above the laurels of glory and above the oaks, May there spring from my heart upon the Holy Mount, The olive tree, with the sunlight in its boughs, where the cicadas sing. * * * * * Sublime Peace who holdest, Beneath thy sovran sway, The turmoil of the world, And who, from out the hurtling of the waves, Makest the rhythm of the seas; Cathedral established Upon the perfect balance of opposing forces; Dazzling rose-window, Where the blood of the sun Gushes forth in diapered sheaves of flame Which the harmonising eye of the artist has bound together; Like to a huge bird Which soars in the zenith, Sheltering the plain beneath its wings, Thy flight embraces, Beyond what is, that which has been and will be. Thou art sister to joy and sister to sorrow, Youngest and wisest of sisters; Thou holdest them both by the hand. Thus art thou like a limpid channel linking two rivers, A channel wherein the skies are mirrored betwixt two rows of pale poplars. Thou art the divine messenger, Passing to and fro like the swallow From bank to bank, Uniting them. To some saying, "Weep not, joy will come again"; To others, "Be not over-confident, happiness is fleeting." Thy shapely arms tenderly enfold Thy froward children, And thou smilest, gazing on them As they bite thy swelling breast. Thou joinest the hands and the hearts Of those who, while seeking one another, flee one another; And thou subjectest to the yoke the unruly bulls, So that instead of wasting In fights the passion which makes their flanks to smoke, Thou turnest this passion to account for ploughing in the womb of the land The furrow long and deep where the seed will germinate. Thou art the faithful helpmate Who welcomest the weary wrestlers on their return. Victors or vanquished, they have an equal share of thy love. For the prize of battle Is not a strip of land Which one day the fat of the victor Will nourish, mingled with that of his foe. The prize is, to have been the tool of Destiny, And not to have bent in her hand.