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 ("Devant les trahisons.") 
 {Bk. VII, xvi., Jersey, Dec. 2, 1852.} 

 Before foul treachery and heads hung down, 
 I'll fold my arms, indignant but serene. 
 Oh! faith in fallen things—be thou my crown, 
 My force, my joy, my prop on which I lean: 
 Yes, whilst he's there, or struggle some or fall, 
 O France, dear France, for whom I weep in vain. 
 Tomb of my sires, nest of my loves—my all, 
 I ne'er shall see thee with these eyes again. 
 I shall not see thy sad, sad sounding shore, 
 France, save my duty, I shall all forget; 
 Amongst the true and tried, I'll tug my oar, 
 And rest proscribed to brand the fawning set. 
 O bitter exile, hard, without a term, 
 Thee I accept, nor seek nor care to know 
 Who have down-truckled 'mid the men deemed firm, 
 And who have fled that should have fought the foe. 
 If true a thousand stand, with them I stand; 
 A hundred? 'tis enough: we'll Sylla brave; 
 Ten? put my name down foremost in the band; 
 One?—well, alone—until I find my grave. 


Poem by Victor Hugo
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