(Styled after Matthew Arnold)
Ah, so it's this for which I labored hard
At the physic's lectern for so many years!
To fight with men in Napoleon's guard
With a scalpel in my pack on the field.
This Fortune is mine: it is better to yield.
Now, one by one, they raise the cannon's mouth,
And my fingers work while bullets graze my head,
Fever leaves my tongue in utter drouth,
As I resuscitate the dead.
I march, I march through winters with icy eyes,
Recalling great men, who lured with great lies,
And those strange hopes that all were set in vain.
But I have one wish – one, O God, to see my love again!
Now I cry, now I cry: If I but live,
What on earth's dark sphere would I not give!
I’ll bleed for my country, the great and strong,
From her I learned to hate the wrong.
O Heaven aid me, this black despair
- Thou constant witch - do you follow there?
Keep me, keep me from the tyrant CARE!
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