Chacun courbe le front devant la majesté

De ton universel génie!

Salut donc, O Sarah! salut, O dona Sol!

Lorsque ton pied mignon vient fouler notre sol,

Te montrer de l’indifférence

Serait à notre sang nous-mêmes faire affront;

Car l’étoile qui luit la plus belle à ton front,

C’est encore celle de la France!

Louis Fréchette.

He read very well, it is true; but those lines, read at a temperature of twenty-two degrees of cold to a poor woman dumfounded through listening to a frenzied “Marseillaise,” stunned by the mad hurrahs from ten thousand throats delirious with patriotic fervour, were more than my strength could bear.