Ode on the Revolution of 1848
Ode sur la Revolution de 1848.
France, O my Manuel, rears again her head;
Now has her freedom not a foe to dread:
Thus in our dreams France we were wont to trace;
For nought by halves can suit that giant race!
Since to the promised land God leads the way,
Why did he not with us permit thy stay?
What hadst thou done, like Moses, thus to die?
Ah, my poor friend, for thy embrace I sigh!
A victor thou — that strife heroic ended —
Soon would thy thoughts to my still nook have tended;
For most we need each other's cordial greeting,
When nobly high the fevered pulse is beating
Embracing as of old, with voice long pent,
Till in a kiss our tears at last were blent,
" All hail. Republic! " would have been our cry —
Ah, my poor friend, for thy embrace I sigh!
Does the world know it? Since the People's might
Showed, at the Tennis-Court, such road to right,
That the whole earth in our fair land hath part —
Circling round us as blood around the heart —
That golden book, sublime, or wise, or gory,
Wherein each lustre shadows forth its glory,
Hath not one page with '48 can vie —
Ah, my poor friend, for thy embrace I sigh!
The royal presence sterilized the land,
Casting its anchor on that shifting sand;
Swift came the thunderbolt — down fell the throne —
I sought its traces, but all trace was gone
Instead, I find a France that teems anew,
By noble blood refreshed, as 'twere with dew —
Prolific soil that shall the world supply —
Ah, my poor friend, for thy embrace I sigh!
Great the Republic is, and long shall last,
Our vows fulfilling: but my love was fast
On thee — I hear those voices sad and deep,
" Mourn for the dead! the dead for ever sleep! "
What, sleep, alas! when France is up anew!
Sleep! when to conquer, and herself outdo,
She needs quick spirits and the sword waved high —
Ah, my poor friend, for thy embrace I sigh!
Hail to thee, People, and thy swift career!
Thinking on him, to me thou art more dear:
No longer void my open arms shall be —
All Frenchmen, brothers, from this day we see
Bent down with age, 't was meet for me to lie
Hushed as in death, when thou to arms didst fly:
Yet, with chilled blood, warm tears bedew mine eye —
People of France, for your embrace I sigh!
France, O my Manuel, rears again her head;
Now has her freedom not a foe to dread:
Thus in our dreams France we were wont to trace;
For nought by halves can suit that giant race!
Since to the promised land God leads the way,
Why did he not with us permit thy stay?
What hadst thou done, like Moses, thus to die?
Ah, my poor friend, for thy embrace I sigh!
A victor thou — that strife heroic ended —
Soon would thy thoughts to my still nook have tended;
For most we need each other's cordial greeting,
When nobly high the fevered pulse is beating
Embracing as of old, with voice long pent,
Till in a kiss our tears at last were blent,
" All hail. Republic! " would have been our cry —
Ah, my poor friend, for thy embrace I sigh!
Does the world know it? Since the People's might
Showed, at the Tennis-Court, such road to right,
That the whole earth in our fair land hath part —
Circling round us as blood around the heart —
That golden book, sublime, or wise, or gory,
Wherein each lustre shadows forth its glory,
Hath not one page with '48 can vie —
Ah, my poor friend, for thy embrace I sigh!
The royal presence sterilized the land,
Casting its anchor on that shifting sand;
Swift came the thunderbolt — down fell the throne —
I sought its traces, but all trace was gone
Instead, I find a France that teems anew,
By noble blood refreshed, as 'twere with dew —
Prolific soil that shall the world supply —
Ah, my poor friend, for thy embrace I sigh!
Great the Republic is, and long shall last,
Our vows fulfilling: but my love was fast
On thee — I hear those voices sad and deep,
" Mourn for the dead! the dead for ever sleep! "
What, sleep, alas! when France is up anew!
Sleep! when to conquer, and herself outdo,
She needs quick spirits and the sword waved high —
Ah, my poor friend, for thy embrace I sigh!
Hail to thee, People, and thy swift career!
Thinking on him, to me thou art more dear:
No longer void my open arms shall be —
All Frenchmen, brothers, from this day we see
Bent down with age, 't was meet for me to lie
Hushed as in death, when thou to arms didst fly:
Yet, with chilled blood, warm tears bedew mine eye —
People of France, for your embrace I sigh!
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.