Classic Poem

Yea, France, full bitter it was, that dark day of September,
When, forty and five years ago, thy sad broken armies
Laid down their arms to the victor on the Field of Sedan;
But, ah, who can tell how bitter the gall and the wormwood,
When the base ungenerous foe down-trampled thy wounded spirit,
High shrilling to heaven in scorn thy glorious song of Freedom?

Be comforted, France, — that scorn was the seed of their ruin;
Long since was it written, " Pride goeth before destruction,"
And, " Those whom the Gods would destroy, they smite with a madness,"
Madness of victory, madness of pride and scorn and insulting;
Half a century long has that seed of their pride been maturing,
And they tread now the winepress, blood-red, of their own undoing!

Yet, France, when they fall, restrain thou thy soul from insulting:
Mock not with the Wacht am Rhein the soul of thy scorners;
If thou sing the Song of thy Freedom, let it be in the depths of thy spirit,
Humbly, remembering how near was thy pride to thy ruin.
Leave thy foes to the scorn of the Gods: in the day of their downfall,
Be sure they will hear their own insult echo back from the field of Sedan!

Amour sacre de la patrie ,
Conduis, soutiens nos bras vengeurs,
Liberte, liberte cherie,
Combats avec tes defenseurs!
Combats avec tes defenseurs!