The Glory Of The Marne

The rivers broaden to the sea In power and wealth and pride, And stately ships from all the world Do berth on every tide . . . But Marne hath never port nor pier, Warehouse nor wharf nor quay, And the very name of her is lost Before she finds the sea. The rivers run rejoicing down And singing as they flow, In rain or sun their course assigned Pursuing, swift or slow . . . But Marne goes weeping all day long, And is not comforted, Her trampled banks and bloodied pools, And shallows choked with dead. Yet hath she glory of her own 'Mid rivers great and small, And nobler dower than pride or power Is hers among them all, Poor Marne hath seen the hosts of Hell Turned backward from their goal, And the stormy dawn of Hope arise On earth's war-darkened soul, And the Marne hath fame for evermore While the floods of Time shall roll.