Patria.{1}

 ("Là-haut, qui sourit.") 
 
 {Bk. VII. vii., September, 1853.} 


 Who smiles there? Is it 
 A stray spirit, 
 Or woman fair? 
 Sombre yet soft the brow! 
 Bow, nations, bow; 
 O soul in air, 
 Speak—what art thou? 
 
 In grief the fair face seems— 
 What means those sudden gleams? 
 Our antique pride from dreams 
 Starts up, and beams 
 Its conquering glance,— 
 To make our sad hearts dance, 
 And wake in woods hushed long 
 The wild bird's song. 
 Angel of Day! 
 Our Hope, Love, Stay, 
 Thy countenance 
 Lights land and sea 
 Eternally, 
 Thy name is France 
 Or Verity. 
 
 Fair angel in thy glass 
 When vile things move or pass, 
 Clouds in the skies amass; 
 Terrible, alas! 
 Thy stern commands are then: 
 "Form your battalions, men, 
 The flag display!" 
 And all obey. 
 Angel of might 
 Sent kings to smite, 
 The words in dark skies glance, 
 "Mené, Mené," hiss 
 Bolts that never miss! 
 Thy name is France, 
 Or Nemesis. 
 
 As halcyons in May, 
 O nations, in his ray 
 Float and bask for aye, 
 Nor know decay! 
 One arm upraised to heaven 
 Seals the past forgiven; 
 One holds a sword 
 To quell hell's horde, 
 Angel of God! 
 Thy wings stretch broad 
 As heaven's expanse! 
 To shield and free 
 Humanity! 
 Thy name is France, 
 Or Liberty! 
 
 {Footnote 1: Written to music by Beethoven.} 


 

♡Like0

Share Comments