Classic Poem

We bring not gold of the magician's dream
But love, transmuted from the iron will
That came to comrade thee in days of ill
When everything, save Freedom, did but seem!
Hero of happy chance,
What matters it thy name, for thou art France!

We bring thee faith, and loyalty, and tears,
The widow's loneliness, the orphan's loss,
And gratitude, to thee who bore the cross,
And honor, that shall ripen with the years;
Hero of happy chance,
We bring thee reverence, for thou art France!

Oh, empty now the glorious monarch's boast
" I am the State! " The sceptre and the crown
Thou by thy valiance didst batter down
Till yesterday's proud king is but a ghost.
Hero of happy chance,
Thy rank is o'er them all, for thou art France!

Where are thy silent mother and thy sire,
Who when they gave thee to the battle-flame
Knew not thy mission of eternal fame —
Thou that dost make a stricken world aspire?
Hero of happy chance,
Thy kin are all true hearts — for thou art France!