The Idol

Poem by Auguste Barbier Collection Lambes et PoèmesPeriod 19th century

O flat-haired Corsican! how beautiful your France was
Under the great sun of Messidor!
She was an untamable and rebellious mare,
Without steel bit or golden reins;
A wild filly with rustic croup,
Still steaming with the blood of kings,
But proud, and with a strong hoof striking the ancient soil,
Free for the first time.
Never had any hand passed over her
To tarnish and insult her;
Never had her broad flanks borne the saddle
And the harness of the stranger;
All her coat was virgin, and, beautiful vagabond,
Eye high, croup in motion,
On her hocks reared up, she frightened the world
With the noise of her neighing.
You appeared, and as soon as you saw her gait,
Her reins so supple and ready,
Bold tamer, you seized her mane,
You mounted booted on her back.
Then, as she loved the rumors of war,
Gunpowder, beating drums,
For racecourse, then you gave her the earth
And combats for pastime:
Then, no more rest, no more nights, no more sleeps,
Always in the air, always work.
Always like sand crushing bodies of men,
Always blood up to the chest.
Fifteen years her hard hoof, in its rapid course,
Crushed generations;
Fifteen years she passed, steaming, at full bridle,
Over the belly of nations;
At last, weary of going without ending her career,
Of going without wearing out her path,
Of kneading the universe, and like a dust
Of lifting up the human race;
Hocks exhausted, panting, without strength
And faltering at each step,
She begged mercy from her Corsican rider;
But, executioner, you did not listen!
You pressed her harder with your nervous thigh,
To stifle her burning cries,
You turned the bit in her foaming mouth,
In fury you broke her teeth;
She rose again: but one day of battle,
Unable to bite her bridle anymore,
Dying, she fell on a bed of grapeshot
And with the blow broke your back.

Auguste Barbier

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