Foremost, who the Carlist lances
With the banner-staff has met?—
Freedom’s votary advances—
Venerable Lafayette!
Happy day! the fervent cry
Echoed “Fame and Liberty!”
Speed, warriors, speed,
Though thousands bleed,
Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thundering steed:—
Conquest waits—your foemen die!
Triple dyes again combining,
See the squadrons onward go:
In the country’s heaven shining,
Mark the bold tri-coloured bow!
Happy day! the general cry
Echoed “Fame and Liberty!”
Speed, warriors, speed,
Though thousands bleed,
Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thundering steed:—
Conquest waits—your foemen die!
Heroes of that banner gleaming,
Ye who bore it in the fray—
Orleans’ troops! your blood was streaming
Freely on that fatal day!
From the page of history
We have learnt the general cry.
Speed, warriors, speed,
Though thousands bleed,
Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thundering steed:—
Conquest waits—your foemen die!
Muffled drum, thy music lonely
Answers to the mourners’ sighs:
Laurels, for the valiant only,
Ornament their obsequies!
Sacred fane of Liberty,
Let their memories never die!
Bear to his grave
Each warrior brave,
Who fell in Freedom’s cause, his country’s rights to save,
Crowned with fame and victory!
There was one more translation from the French in the packet which had been placed at Laura’s disposal: and this was a portion of Victor Hugo’s celebrated
ODE,
WRITTEN AFTER THE REVOLUTION OF 1830.
O friends of your country, immortal in story,
Adorned with the laurels ye won in the fight;—
When thousands around you fell covered with glory,
Ye turned not away from the enemy’s might;
But ye raised up your banners, all tattered and torn,
Like those which your sires had at Austerlitz borne!
Ye have rivalled those sires—ye have conquered for France:
The rights of the people from tyrants are saved:—
Ye beckoned to Freedom—ye saw her advance—
And danger was laughed at, and peril was braved.
Then, if they were admired who destroyed the Bastille,
What for you should not France in her gratitude feel?
Ye are worthy your fathers—your souls are the same—
Ye add to their glory, their pride, and renown;—
Your arms are well nerved—ye are noted by Fame,
That the laurel and oak may unite for your crown!
Your mother—’tis France! who for ever will be
The mother of heroes—the great—and the free!
E’en England the jealous, and Greece the poetic—
All Europe admired,—and the great Western World
Arose to applaud with a heart sympathetic,
When it marked the French banners of freedom unfurled.
Three days were sufficient to shake off the chain,
And ye proved yourselves friends to your country again!