Classic Poem

L'orage.

Ay, dance, dear Children, dance away;
Storms to your age no ills can bring:
Hope gaily leads you forth to play;
Ay, dance, and sing!

You, gentle girl, you, tiny boy,
If school and books ye can evade,
To your own songs would dance with joy
Beneath the green elm's shade.
This poor world fears in vain
That fresh ill o'er it lowers;
Let thunder growl again;
Go, crown yourselves with flowers!

Ay, dance, dear Children, dance away;
Storms to your age no ills can bring:
Hope gaily leads you forth to play;
Ay, dance, and sing!

The lightning through the clouds may plough;
It hath not struck your youthful eyes:
The bird is silent on the bough;
Still your gay songs arise.
Ye are of heart so light,
That soon, I half suspect,
Your eyes in frenzy bright
Will Heaven's pure blue reflect.

Ay, dance, dear Children, dance away;
Storms to your age no ills can bring:
Hope gaily leads you forth to play;
Ay, dance, and sing!

Your fathers suffered many pains;
Be not like them by knaves trepanned!
With one hand did they break their chains,
With one avenge their land
They fell from Victory's car,
Without disgrace o'erthrown:
Heirs to their fame ye are —
They heaped up fame alone.

Ay, dance, dear Children, dance away;
Storms to your age no ills can bring:
Hope gaily leads you forth to play;
Ay, dance, and sing!

To ill-toned blasts, that rang around,
Your eyes, alas! did ye unclose:
'Twas the Barbarian's trumpet sound,
That told you of our woes
The din of arms to hear,
The shattered roof to see,
Was yours — we shed the tear —
You smiled in infant glee.

Ay, dance, dear Children, dance away;
Storms to your age no ills can bring:
Hope gaily leads you forth to play;
Ay, dance, and sing!

You'll triumph o'er the stormy blast,
Wherein our courage drooped and died;
The bolt, that on our heads was cast,
A beacon-light supplied.
If God, your friend, indeed,
Deemed chastisement our due,
Again he sows the seed
Of future joy for you .

Ay, dance, dear Children, dance away;
Storms to your age no ills can bring:
Hope gaily leads you forth to play;
Ay, dance, and sing!

Children, the storm, redoubled, shows
That Fate in angry mood draws near:
Little ye reck of Fate, whose blows
I, at my age, must fear
If death must be my doom
Whilst singing woes of ours,
Ah! lay upon my tomb
Your coronets of flowers!

Ay, dance, dear children, dance away;
Storms to your age no ills can bring:
Hope gaily leads you forth to play;
Ay, dance, and sing!