O France, although you
We call you, we the forbidden!
The shadows have ears,
And the depths have cries.
Bitter, glory-less
Over a discouraged
Closes a black thick
Of error and prejudice;
It locks up the loyal
Of firm thinkers, of heroes,
But the Idea with the flap of a
Will part the heavy bars,
And, as in ninety-one,
Will retake sovereign flight,
For breaking apart a cage of
Is easy for bronze bird.
Darkness covers the world,
But the Idea illuminates and shines;
With its white brightness it
The dark blues of the night.
It is the solitary lantern,
The providential ray;
It is the lamp of the
That cannot help but light the sky.
It calms the suffering soul,
Guides life, puts the dead to rest;
It shows the mean the gulf,
It shows the just the way.
In seeing in the dark
The Idea, love of sad eyes,
Rise calm, serene and pure,
On the mysterious horizon,
Fanaticism and
Roar before each threshhold,
As obscene hounds
When appears the moon in mourning.
Oh!
Think of the mighty Idea,
Nations! its superhuman
Has upon it, from now on, the
That will show the way to tomorrow!
