Classic Poem

Les enfans de la France

Queen of the world! O France, my country, now
At length lift up thy cicatrised brow:
Though soiled and rent thy children's standard lies,
Their glory rests untarnished in thine eyes
When o'er their valor Fortune cast a spell;
When o'er their valor Fortune cast a spell;
When from thy hands thy golden sceptre fell;
Thy very foes the cry were prompt to swell —
" Honor to the Children of France! "

Thy grandeurs, France, thou couldst, at need, resign;
And make thy name o'er ills triumphant shine:
Fall though thou may'st, 'tis like Heaven's bolt, in air
That lifts itself again, still muttering there
The Rhine, through banks now ravished from thy sway,
Winds with regret his tributary way;
And from his bed of reeds we hear him say,
" Honor to the Children of France! "

Barbarian coursers did their footmarks trace
Profanely on thy fields — those marks to efface,
Hath Heaven on thee e'er looked more kindly down?
See, how our fields the plenteous harvests crown!
Prompt to avenge of well-known theft the shame,
Lo! the Fine Arts uphold their altars' fame;
And, graven there in deathless strokes, proclaim
" Honor to the Children of France! "

To History's accents let thine ear be lent;
To thee what ancient people hath not bent?
What modern people, envying thy renown,
Hath not before it many a time bowed down?
In vain hath England to the balance brought
Her gold, that kings — for conquest — humbly sought:
Dost thou not hear the words by ages taught,
" Honor to the Children of France? "

God, who condemns, or slaves or tyrants' ways,
Would have thee free, and free for all thy days.
Let not thy pleasures longer be a chain;
The Loves from Liberty a smile should gain!
Throw by her lance — 'tis thine her torch to take,
And teach the world: a hundred tribes shall break
Their fetters, whilst this chorus they shall wake —
" Honor to the Children of France! "

Queen of the world! O France, arise, arise!
The proudest laurels yet shall be thy prize
Yes, it must be; a fruitful palm-tree blooms,
From age to age to shield thy children's tombs:
Ah! may the passer-by, (such hope is sweet)
Struck with the love I bore my country, greet,
Some day, my tomb, and there these words repeat —
" Honor to the Children of France! "