LA MARSEILLAISE.
Sons of heroes, famed in story,
Onward march to death or glory!
For see, the foemen’s standard waves
O’er fields that soon must be their graves!
Hear ye the clashing of their arms—
Their shouts portending dire alarms?
Eager for slaughter, on they press
To make your children fatherless.
Then let each warrior grasp the gleaming brand,
And shed th’ invaders’ blood to fertilise the land!
Wherefore to our peaceful coast
Rush those sanguinary hosts?
For whom have they prepared the chains
Which now they drag o’er verdant plains?—
Children of France, to us they come—
Those chains are forged to stamp our doom!
Just Heaven, that such disgrace should fall
Upon the free-born sons of Gaul!
Then let each warrior grasp the gleaming brand,
And shed th’ invaders’ blood to fertilize the land!
What! shall we, afraid of war,
Take from tyrant hands the law?
What! shall a foreign cohort’s pride
Intimidate our warriors tried?
Great God! our necks can never be
Subject to despots’ tyranny:
Nor shall th’ invaders of the State
Decide upon its people’s fate!
Then let each warrior grasp the gleaming brand,
And shed th’ invaders’ blood to fertilize the land!
Tremble! chiefs, perfidious all—
On your heads our curses fall!
Tremble! your projects, soon made vain,
Their merited return will gain;—
For France has armed her serried bands,
And placed her safety in their hands:
So that if hundreds fall to day,
To-morrow thousands join th’ array.
Then let each warrior grasp the vengeful brand,
And shed th’ invaders’ blood to fertilize the land!
In the darkling battle’s strife,
Soldier! spare your victim’s life,
When, armed against you in the field,
Feeble and weak, he cries—“I yield!”
Him may’st thou spare: but to the grave
Shalt thou pursue the chief who gave
Such dire example to the rest
That tear for food their mother’s breast!—
Then let each warrior grasp the vengeful brand,
And shed th’ invaders’ blood to fertilize the land!
Sacred fervour—patriot flame,
Urge us on to deeds of fame!
Freedom! assist the deadly blow
That we direct against the foe:
Conquest! may we to war be led,
Thy banners amply o’er us spread;—
And may the tyrant hosts retreat,
Or beg for mercy at our feet!
Then let each warrior grasp the gleaming brand,
And shed th’ invaders’ blood to fertilize the land!
The next manuscript which Laura studied on this occasion contained a translation of Casimir Delavigne’s celebrated national air, written after the Revolution of 1830:—