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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508403" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Jean Desprez</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh ye whose hearts are resonant, and ring to War's romance,<br>Hear ye the story of a boy, a peasant boy of France;<br>A lad uncouth and warped with toil, yet who, when trial came,<br>Could feel within his soul upleap and soar the sacred flame;<br>Could stand upright, and scorn and smite, as only heroes may:<br>Oh, harken! Let me try to tell the tale of Jean Desprez.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">With fire and sword the Teuton horde was ravaging the land,<br>And there was darkness and despair, grim death on every hand;<br>Red fields of slaughter sloping down to ruin's black abyss;<br>The wolves of war ran evil-fanged, and little did they miss.<br>And on they came with fear and flame, to burn and loot and slay,<br>Until they reached the red-roofed croft, the home of Jean Desprez.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">"Rout out the village, one and all!" the Uhlan Captain said.<br>"Behold! Some hand has fired a shot. My trumpeter is dead.<br>Now shall they Prussian vengeance know; now shall they rue the day,<br>For by this sacred German slain, ten of these dogs shall pay."<br>They drove the cowering peasants forth, women and babes and men,<br>And from the last, with many a jeer, the Captain chose he ten;<br>Ten simple peasants, bowed with toil; they stood, they knew not why,<br>Against the grey wall of the church, hearing their children cry;<br>Hearing their wives and mothers wail, with faces dazed they stood.<br>A moment only. . . . Ready! Fire! They weltered in their blood.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But there was one who gazed unseen, who heard the frenzied cries,<br>Who saw these men in sabots fall before their children's eyes;<br>A Zouave wounded in a ditch, and knowing death was nigh,<br>He laughed with joy: "Ah! here is where I settle ere I die."<br>He clutched his rifle once again, and long he aimed and well. . . .<br>A shot! Beside his victims ten the Uhlan Captain fell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They dragged the wounded Zouave out; their rage was like a flame.<br>With bayonets they pinned him down, until their Major came.<br>A blonde, full-blooded man he was, and arrogant of eye;<br>He stared to see with shattered skull his favourite Captain lie.<br>"Nay, do not finish him so quick, this foreign swine," he cried;<br>"Go nail him to the big church door: he shall be crucified."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">With bayonets through hands and feet they nailed the Zouave there,<br>And there was anguish in his eyes, and horror in his stare;<br>"Water! A single drop!" he moaned; but how they jeered at him,<br>And mocked him with an empty cup, and saw his sight grow dim;<br>And as in agony of death with blood his lips were wet,<br>The Prussian Major gaily laughed, and lit a cigarette.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But mid the white-faced villagers who cowered in horror by,<br>Was one who saw the woeful sight, who heard the woeful cry:<br>"Water! One little drop, I beg! For love of Christ who died. . . ."<br>It was the little Jean Desprez who turned and stole aside;<br>It was the little bare-foot boy who came with cup abrim<br>And walked up to the dying man, and gave the drink to him.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A roar of rage! They seize the boy; they tear him fast away.<br>The Prussian Major swings around; no longer is he gay.<br>His teeth are wolfishly agleam; his face all dark with spite:<br>"Go, shoot the brat," he snarls, "that dare defy our Prussian might.<br>Yet stay! I have another thought. I'll kindly be, and spare;<br>Quick! give the lad a rifle charged, and set him squarely there,<br>And bid him shoot, and shoot to kill. Haste! Make him understand<br>The dying dog he fain would save shall perish by his hand.<br>And all his kindred they shall see, and all shall curse his name,<br>Who bought his life at such a cost, the price of death and shame."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They brought the boy, wild-eyed with fear; they made him understand;<br>They stood him by the dying man, a rifle in his hand.<br>"Make haste!" said they; "the time is short, and you must kill or die."<br>The Major puffed his cigarette, amusement in his eye.<br>And then the dying Zouave heard, and raised his weary head:<br>"Shoot, son, 'twill be the best for both; shoot swift and straight," he said.<br>"Fire first and last, and do not flinch; for lost to hope am I;<br>And I will murmur: Vive La France! and bless you ere I die."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Half-blind with blows the boy stood there; he seemed to swoon and sway;<br>Then in that moment woke the soul of little Jean Desprez.<br>He saw the woods go sheening down; the larks were singing clear;<br>And oh! the scents and sounds of spring, how sweet they were! how dear!<br>He felt the scent of new-mown hay, a soft breeze fanned his brow;<br>O God! the paths of peace and toil! How precious were they now!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The summer days and summer ways, how bright with hope and bliss!<br>The autumn such a dream of gold . . . and all must end in this:<br>This shining rifle in his hand, that shambles all around;<br>The Zouave there with dying glare; the blood upon the ground;<br>The brutal faces round him ringed, the evil eyes aflame;<br>That Prussian bully standing by, as if he watched a game.<br>"Make haste and shoot," the Major sneered; "a minute more I give;<br>A minute more to kill your friend, if you yourself would live."</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They only saw a bare-foot boy, with blanched and twitching face;<br>They did not see within his eyes the glory of his race;<br>The glory of a million men who for fair France have died,<br>The splendour of self-sacrifice that will not be denied.<br>Yet . . . he was but a peasant lad, and oh! but life was sweet. . . .<br>"Your minute's nearly gone, my lad," he heard a voice repeat.<br>"Shoot! Shoot!" the dying Zouave moaned; "Shoot! Shoot!" the soldiers said.<br>Then Jean Desprez reached out and shot . . . the Prussian Major dead!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+William+Service">Robert William Service</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508403" data-title="Jean Desprez de Robert William Service" data-description="Oh ye whose hearts are resonant, and ring to War's romance, Hear ye the story of a boy, a peasant boy of France; A lad uncouth and warped with toil, yet who, when trial came, Could feel within his soul upleap and soar the sacred flame; Could stand..."></div> </div> </div>
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