Songs of Two Nations Part 2

STROPHE 6

Thou wast the light whereby men saw Light, thou the trumpet of the law Proclaiming manhood to mankind; And what if all these years were blind And shameful? Hath the sun a flaw Because one hour hath power to draw Mist round him wreathed as links to bind?

And what if now keen anguish drains The very wellspring of thy veins And very spirit of thy breath?

The life outlives them and disdains; The sense which makes the soul remains, And blood of thought which travaileth To bring forth hope with procreant pains.

O thou that satest bound in chains Between thine hills and pleasant plains As whom his own soul vanquisheth, Held in the bonds of his own thought, Whence very death can take off nought, Nor sleep, with bitterer dreams than death, What though thy thousands at thy knees Lie thick as grave-worms feed on these, Though thy green fields and joyous places Are populous with blood-blackening faces And wan limbs eaten by the sun?

Better an end of all men's races, Better the world's whole work were done, And life wiped out of all our traces, And there were left to time not one, Than such as these that fill thy graves Should sow in slaves the seed of slaves.

ANTISTROPHE 1

Not of thy sons, O mother many-wounded, Not of thy sons are slaves ingrafted and grown.

Was it not thine, the fire whence light rebounded From kingdom on rekindling kingdom thrown, From hearts confirmed on tyrannies confounded, From earth on heaven, fire mightier than his own?

Not thine the breath wherewith time's clarion sounded, And all the terror in the trumpet blown?

The voice whereat the thunders stood astounded As at a new sound of a G.o.d unknown?

And all the seas and sh.o.r.es within them bounded Shook at the strange speech of thy lips alone, And all the hills of heaven, the storm-surrounded, Trembled, and all the night sent forth a groan.

ANTISTROPHE 2

What hast thou done that such an hour should be More than another clothed with blood to thee?

Thou hast seen many a bloodred hour before this one.

What art thou that thy lovers should mis...o...b..?

What is this hour that it should cast hope out?

If hope turn back and fall from thee, what hast thou done?

Thou hast done ill against thine own soul; yea, Thine own soul hast thou slain and burnt away, Dissolving it with poison into foul thin fume.

Thine own life and creation of thy fate Thou hast set thine hand to unmake and discreate; And now thy slain soul rises between dread and doom.

Yea, this is she that comes between them led; That veiled head is thine own soul's buried head, The head that was as morning's in the whole world's sight.

These wounds are deadly on thee, but deadlier Those wounds the ravenous poison left on her; How shall her weak hands hold thy weak hands up to fight?

Ah, but her fiery eyes, her eyes are these That, gazing, make thee s.h.i.+ver to the knees And the blood leap within thee, and the strong joy rise.

What, doth her sight yet make thine heart to dance?

O France, O freedom, O the soul of France, Are ye then quickened, gazing in each other's eyes?

Ah, and her words, the words wherewith she sought thee Sorrowing, and bare in hand the robe she wrought thee To wear when soul and body were again made one, And fairest among women, and a bride, Sweet-voiced to sing the bridegroom to her side, The spirit of man, the bridegroom brighter than the sun!

ANTISTROPHE 3

Who shall help me? who shall take me by the hand?

Who shall teach mine eyes to see, my feet to stand, Now my foes have stripped and wounded me by night?

Who shall heal me? who shall come to take my part?

Who shall set me as a seal upon his heart, As a seal upon his arm made bare for fight?

ANTISTROPHE 4

If thou know not, O thou fairest among women, If thou see not where the signs of him abide, Lift thine eyes up to the light that stars grow dim in, To the morning whence he comes to take thy side.

None but he can bear the light that love wraps him in, When he comes on earth to take himself a bride.

ANTISTROPHE 5

Light of light, name of names, Whose shadows are live flames, The soul that moves the wings of worlds upon their way; Life, spirit, blood and breath In time and change and death Substant through strength and weakness, ardour and decay; Lord of the lives of lands, Spirit of man, whose hands Weave the web through wherein man's centuries fall as prey; That art within our will Power to make, save, and kill, Knowledge and choice, to take extremities and weigh; In the soul's hand to smite Strength, in the soul's eye sight; That to the soul art even as is the soul to clay; Now to this people be Love; come, to set them free, With feet that tread the night, with eyes that sound the day.

ANTISTROPHE 6

Thou that wast on their fathers dead As effluent G.o.d effused and shed, Heaven to be handled, hope made flesh, Break for them now time's iron mesh; Give them thyself for hand and head, Thy breath for life, thy love for bread, Thy thought for spirit to refresh, Thy bitterness to pierce and sting, Thy sweetness for a healing spring.

Be to them knowledge, strength, life, light, Thou to whose feet the centuries cling And in the wide warmth of thy wing Seek room and rest as birds by night, O thou the kingless people's king, To whom the lips of silence sing, Called by thy name of thanksgiving Freedom, and by thy name of might Justice, and by thy secret name Love; the same need is on the same Men, be the same G.o.d in their sight!

From this their hour of b.l.o.o.d.y tears Their praise goes up into thine ears, Their bruised lips clothe thy name with praises, The song of thee their crushed voice raises, Their grief seeks joy for psalms to borrow, With tired feet seeks her through time's mazes Where each day's blood leaves pale the morrow, And from their eyes in thine there gazes A spirit other far than sorrow-- A soul triumphal, white and whole And single, that salutes thy soul.

EPODE

All the lights of the sweet heaven that sing together; All the years of the green earth that bare man free; Rays and lightnings of the fierce or tender weather, Heights and lowlands, wastes and headlands of the sea, Dawns and sunsets, hours that hold the world in tether, Be our witnesses and seals of things to be.

Lo the mother, the Republic universal, Hands that hold time fast, hands feeding men with might, Lips that sing the song of the earth, that make rehearsal Of all seasons, and the sway of day with night, Eyes that see as from a mountain the dispersal, The huge ruin of things evil, and the flight; Large exulting limbs, and bosom G.o.dlike moulded Where the man-child hangs, and womb wherein he lay; Very life that could it die would leave the soul dead, Face whereat all fears and forces flee away, Breath that moves the world as winds a flower-bell folded, Feet that trampling the gross darkness beat out day.

In the hour of pain and pity, Sore spent, a wounded city, Her foster-child seeks to her, stately where she stands; In the utter hour of woes, Wind-shaken, blind with blows, Paris lays hold upon her, grasps her with child's hands; Face kindles face with fire, Hearts take and give desire, Strange joy breaks red as tempest on tormented lands.

Day to day, man to man, Plights love republican, And faith and memory burn with pa.s.sion toward each other; Hope, with fresh heavens to track, Looks for a breath's s.p.a.ce back, Where the divine past years reach hands to this their brother; And souls of men whose death Was light to her and breath Send word of love yet living to the living mother.

They call her, and she hears; O France, thy marvellous years, The years of the strong travail, the triumphant time, Days terrible with love, Red-shod with flames thereof, Call to this hour that breaks in pieces crown and crime; The hour with feet to spurn, Hands to crush, fires to burn The state whereto no latter foot of man shall climb.

Yea, come what grief, now may By ruinous night or day, One grief there cannot, one the first and last grief, shame.

Come force to break thee and bow Down, shame can come not now, Nor, though hands wound thee, tongues make mockery of thy name: Come swords and scar thy brow, No brand there burns it now, No spot but of thy blood marks thy white-fronted fame.

Now, though the mad blind morrow With shafts of iron sorrow Should split thine heart, and whelm thine head with sanguine waves; Though all that draw thy breath Bled from all veins to death, And thy dead body were the grave of all their graves, And thine unchilded womb For all their tombs a tomb, At least within thee as on thee room were none for slaves.

This power thou hast, to be, Come death or come not, free; That in all tongues of time's this praise be chanted of thee, That in thy wild worst hour This power put in thee power, And moved as hope around and hung as heaven above thee, And while earth sat in sadness In only thee put gladness, Put strength and love, to make all hearts of ages love thee.

That in death's face thy chant Arose up jubilant, And thy great heart with thy great peril grew more great: And sweet for bitter tears Put out the fires of fears, And love made lovely for thee loveless h.e.l.l and hate; And they that house with error, Cold shame and burning terror, Fled from truth risen and thee made mightier than thy fate.

This shall all years remember; For this thing shall September Have only name of honour, only sign of white.

And this year's fearful name, France, in thine house of fame Above all names of all thy triumphs shalt thou write, When, seeing thy freedom stand Even at despair's right hand, The cry thou gavest at heart was only of delight.

DIRAE

Guai a voi, anime prave.

Dante.

Soyez maudits, d'abord d'etre ce que vous etes, Et puis soyez maudits d'obseder les poetes!

Victor Hugo.

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