Classic Poem

( " Toute esperance, Enfant. " )

Each hope, dear child, is a slender reed.
God holds in His hand frail threads of our days,
And divides them at pleasure, and takes no heed
That, the thread being cut, our joy falls from its place:
In each cradle on earth
A death hath birth.

Erewhile, seest thou, the future, pure light,
Shone sweetly before my young spirit afire, —
Bright bird on the wave, in heaven star bright,
Splendid bloom 'mid the shadow athrob with desire:
This vision, my sweet,
How lovely! how fleet!

If, haply, nigh thee one dreamfully weep,
Let the tears fall, nor do thou ask why.
Sweet 'tis to weep, — ay, the bright drops keep
Soft melody 'midst the tempestuous world-cry:
O child, every tear
Leaves some sin clear!

I.

Art, 'tis a glory, a delight;
I' the tempest it holds fire-flight,
It irradiates the deep blue sky.
Art, splendour infinite,
On the brow of the People doth sit,
As a star in God's heaven most high.

Art, 'tis a broad-flowered plain
Where Peace holds beloved reign;
'Tis the passionate unison
Of music the city hath made
With the country, the man with the maid,
All sweet songs made perfect in one!

Art, 'tis Humanity's thought
Which shatters chains century-wrought!
Art, 'tis the conqueror sweet!
Unto Art, each world-river, each sea!
Slave-People, 'tis Art makes free;
Free People, 'tis Art makes great!

II.

O chivalrous France, without cease
Chant loudly thy hymn of peace, —
Chant, with eyes fixed on the sky!
Thy joyous voice and profound
Through the slumbering world doth resound ...
O noble People, chant high!

True People, chant gladly the dawn.
At even raise song as at morn!
After labour sweet singing should be.
Laugh for the century o'erthrown!
Sing love in a tender tone,
And loudlier chant Liberty!

Chant Italy sacred and sweet,
Poor Poland, slain sons at her feet,
Naples, whose heart-blood outpours,
Hungary, the Russian's base vaunt ... —
O tyrants! the People doth chant
Even as the lion roars!