Sole in sight of the crowd may be,
So ye, my martyrs, arise, advance!
For what is left at the feet of France
It is our failure, it is not we.
II
Not to ourselves our strength we brought:
Inexpiable the Hand that wrought
In us the ruin of no redress,
The storm, the effort, the pang, the fire,
The premonition, the vast desire,