Till the score of years

Is wiped out in floods of staunchless tears.

Yea, the anguish in a people's life

May have eaten out its heart of pity,

Bred in scenes of scarlet sin and strife,

Heartless splendours of a haughty city;

[43]

Dark with lowering fate,

At the massive gate

Of its kings it may

Stand and knock with tragic hand one day.

For the living tomb gives up its dead,

Bastilles yawn, and chains are rent asunder,

Little children now and hoary head,

Man and maiden, meet in joy and wonder;

Throng on radiant throng,

Brave and blithe and strong,

Gay with pine and palm,

Fill fair France with freedom's thunder-psalm.

Free and equal—rid of king and priest—

 Prev. P 37/155 next