Sister in sorrow now, as once in arms,

Of old "fair enemy" on many a field,

In valiant days but blind, we will not yield

To any in that sympathy which warms

All generous hearts, or love of those gay charms

Nature and Genius gave you as your own

To wear, inimitable and alone;

And now the asp-hearted Anarch's mad alarms

Make monstrous tumult in the midst of peace

We cry "let brothers band till Cain-like slayers cease!"

The slaughtered son you bear from forth the fray,—

Like some winged Victory, or a Goddess high,

With steps unshaken, glance that seeks the sky,

Such as your glorious sculptors shape from clay,—

Was noble, brave, and blameless; him to slay

Was the blood-blinded phrenzy of black hate.

Through him the Anarch struck at your high state,

Fair choice of France, but baffled crawls away.

Prone at your feet your faithful servant fell,

But you stride calmly on, unscathed, invulnerable.

So may it be till Anarchy's stealthy blade

Falls pointless, shattered, from its palsied grasp,

And helpless, harmless as a fangless asp

It slinks from freedom's pathway, foiled, afraid,

Whilst the Republic, strong and undismayed,

With robe unsmirched, its hem no longer gory,

Strides proudly on the true high path of glory.

Take, France, a sister's wreath, before you laid,

In honour of you, and of your hero brave.

Love's garland shall not fade on gallant Carnot's grave!