James and Mary Ford, eds. Every Day in the Year. 1902.
July 14The Column of July
By George Gordon McCrae (18331927)
T
In borrowed sunshine, when the Bastille towers
Frowned on the passer-by; and silence reigned
Supremely sad, save where the night-bird cries
Of sentinels beat back the crowding air;
Or where the booming clock, with sullen tones,
Proclaimed the lapse, the wane, the death of hours;
Or where the low cadenzas of a lute,
Borne through a loophole’s gush of whirling wind,
And mingled with strange murmurs, tranced the ear,
Saddening all souls that felt the harmony,
Too late! too late thy brandished blazing torch
Flamed like a glory through those darkened cells;
Too late the might of thine herculean arm
Wrested. O golden angel! from those doors
The bolts and staples, hinges, massy chains,
Setting the captives free, mid warlike din,
And voices of a populace that roared,
“Down with the Bastille! Over with it! Down!”
Another angel, with a sadder face,
Descended like a dart, still angel-like,
Through clouds of air, stout roofs, and floors of stone,
Into the masked one’s cell, and sat with him,
Looked the unutterable mystery
Into the weary eyes that followed his,
Content to be absorbed; then vanishing
Fled out into the night,—and not alone.