O song that with one blow, at its initial strain, explodes, sets free the air of the void, invades the air, is only air itself and rends the hurricane, tufted with steps, with cries, with trumpets' martial blare, sole song that frees the soul with but a single blow, so much that soul and song in towering flame are blent, that turns a heedless throng to soaring fire intent -- as mad Saint Michael sped the demon to o'erthrow -- on leaping where our life must purge impurities, cleansing the crimes of hate and tyrannous desire, or to eternal deeps hurl down, with deathless fire, the re-arising scourge of men and deities: the Barbarians on the march! with their burned flesh to fill the yawning Pit whose lure this world can scarce refuse, -- hymn of naught else than flame wherein a man pursues the soul that summons him and flies before him still! Such is the song, the pride that stirs each Gallic sword, this great hymn all aflare, such is the Marseillaise, that our soldiers shall behold burst from their lips, to blaze, terrific, towards the backs of that defeated horde. Valour's universal song, whose magic accents ring through the Old World and, no less, through the Country of the Free! Ah, from whatever race or party one may be, to the Republic vowed, the Emperor, the King, whoever sings that song, despite its cruel lines, (no, with them! I blaspheme!), whoe'er that song doth start, arises filled with love, though born with shriveled heart, stands forth with honour filled, though false a hundred times! Song that no leisure leaves to ponder or delay! Which, when it dwells in you, bursts from you in a breath, and 'tis your soul's best part that thus is borne away. Sons of your country, rise . . . to victory or death! It shames the wounded men. In a renewing flood of strength they stand erect for fiercer fighting fain! Its slogan propagates such fury in the blood that it is but the dead who do not rise again to give themselves once more the joy, supreme and grim, of striking down the Boche, once more ere life is fled, ere they forever die. Not yet! Great strengthening hymn, hymn that resuscitates, hymn that awakes the dead! O hymn that with one blow, at its initial strain explodes, sets free the air of the void, O Marseillaise changed to the air itself where whirls the hurricane of souls that bear gross flesh to the red furnace-blaze, able to bear to Heaven, purging away their dross, the unbelieving horde by worldly wiles enticed, wherewith to dower the church triumphant, Jesus Christ would with more lingering pangs have suffered on the cross. Of our strife what does He see, the God in Heaven who reigns? Forever solitude among the dying throng? Ah, all upheaves at last, bounds, flames to this vast song arising towards the clouds from the entrails of the plains: "To arms, to arms, ye brave!" 'Tis from the Gallic side the soil spits volleying steel, the maddened smoke-wreaths glide, then blue horizons roar. The good God may behold their circle mount on high, in vapour aureoled. Such is this song whose force so oft has rendered tame the foe -- the Barbarian, forsworn on every hand. Shrilled by our marching files, in waves of cadenced flame, it filled our general's souls, partook of their command. The Pyramids! Fleurus! Arcole and Wattignies! The Marseillaise doth sing a dauntless history, and then 'tis our Jouvence and makes our ranks prevail. 'Tis not the fate of France in wretchedness to fail. Oft the Teutonic hordes, to cheat our watchful guns, howl it to falling stars in the gloom. 'Tis well averred that straight the air is foul and gasping cries are heard, for like nux vomica our hymn affects the Huns. From a hundred thousand throats, ah, the effect was fine when the coryphaeus' name was Bonaparte. Today Joffre, with more volume still, uplifts the air divine to his winged Victory that never shall give way! Flags, oriflammes that, mute, proclaim our victory, piled eagles, pikes, and guns, the trophies we retain, cannon of Bois-le-Pretre, cannon of Rivoli, and you, proud azure dome, with glory gorged again, witness! 'Tis towards this song, as towards its places of doom, there swirled itself, a morn's gigantic hurricane, the Paris Multitude. A million prides were fain low to incline themselves before your quiet tomb, Rouget de Lisle, the while, in hommage to your wraith, from Alsace to the North our soldiers chanted loud, Germans that delve the soil, Germans perplexed and cowed, that song wherein all France explodes in fervent faith! Tremble, 'tis in the air and in the air will stay. 'Tis all the air of the world. Your swarms 'twill sweep away. This Air will save Alsace, the country of its birth and of your yoke and you forever rid the earth! Tremble, the hour is near, the hour when you must die, when soldier-singers prove that Pity's hour is past, when Pity's self demands we slay you utterly, you and your children, too, all, to the very last! Tremble, it is the dawn that sees your crimes' redress. The universe entire arises now, and chants the hymn of resurrection, peace and deliverance . . . do you hear it? . . . and the hymn, the hymn of Vengeances. To arms, ye citizens! Show your battalions' worth! March! Blood impure shall choke their plea to God on high. We are the dragon-seed their furrows fructify. To arms ye citizens of every land on earth! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ONE OF THE LEAST OF THESE, MY LITTLE ONE' by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: HENRY PHIPPS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE LOST SHEEP by SARAH PRATT MCCLAIN GREENE WHAT THE BULLET SANG by FRANCIS BRET HARTE |