I came across this poem yesterday and thought I would share it.
After the Battle
by Victor Hugo
My father, of all heroes, kindliest,
Attended by the soldier he loved best
(Both for his mighty courage and his height),
Rode, where the battle had been fought, as night
Fell on the slain that cumbered all the ground.
Out of the shadows came a feeble sound.
A Spaniard of the army put to rout
Lay by the road, his life blood ebbing out.
Broken and groaning, on death’s very brink,
He whimpered: “Pity me! A drink! A drink!”
My father offered then to his hussar
A gourd that hung beside his saddle bar.
“Poor wounded man! Give this to him,” he said.
The soldier bent over the livid head
Of one whose mongrel blood had not yet tired
Of hate; who clasped a pistol still and fired;
With aim directed on my father’s brow
And cried: “Die, Enemy, I curse you now!”
The ball skimmed close – so close his horse reared – then,
“Give him the drink,” my father said again.
