Classic and Contemporary Poetry
AN APOSTROPHE TO FRANCE, by CHARLES LOUIS HENRY WAGNER First Line: I cannot speak thy tongue, o, france Last Line: La marseilles. Subject(s): France; Freedom; Liberty | ||||||||
I cannot speak thy tongue, O, France, Nor can I boast as kin Of thine, Oh, that I could, God knows I would, For in the heart that beats within My singing breast, there rings The iron echoes of momentous things That proved thy soul, O, France. This joy is mine, To sing in alien tongue, But still to sing Of commonness with thee, with thine, For in thy borning sun of Freedom came The light that gleams in nascent hope Of men Who yet are bound by autocratic rule And gods of falsity and fear, Whose spirits seeming grope 'Midst doubts and darkness drear, Whose leaders play the fool. And oh, If I can but inflame My fellows with that holy fire That burns within thy breast. And spills from out its frame On Earth, and mounting higher Kisses the throne of Heaven, Then,then will my song Be music worthy of thy name, Of Cause thy life has blest, And I shall enter heaven. My debt to thee is still unpaid, O France, For me thy Maid of Orleans girt Her shapely form in cased steel, And taught that Country's weal Was mine; My hurt, e'en death To keep its starry banner bright Should be for me a glorious delight, And LaFayette, with kindred souls who gave Under thy flag, themselves, To save For me and mine the liberties I claim, Taught me to see in other lands, my own, Taught me to feel that supine ease is shame, Nor that alone, But damned. And on that great and holy day When buttressed symbol of the despot's sway Was hurled to earth And peasants proved That men were men and not of lesser birth, Then was my status as a man made known, God make me worthy of that day. And now, O, France, Thy potted soil Cries out to me, lest I forget, Four years, the Vandals, typified In Lust and Hate, Have sought to break thy Freedom's gate And scale the walls and parapet Of Liberty. Thy youth hath died Saving for me that which their fathers gave, Finding their peace in shell-torn, shallow grave, And how my blood doth boil When whispers of inhuman warfare float Across the sea To me. But oh, I know that in Time's fulness comes The Day of days, When France, God's France, brave France, Will echo with the triumph of the drums That shall announce the vandal foe's retreat, Thy Cause upheld, the thief despoiled and fled, The glorifying of thy worthy dead, The joyful music of returning feet Beating a freer dust than that Of Must, And ALL shall sing That song of triumph with its golden note, La Marseilles. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LOVE THE WILD SWAN by ROBINSON JEFFERS AFTER TENNYSON by AMBROSE BIERCE QUARTET IN F MAJOR by WILLIAM MEREDITH CROSS THAT LINE by NAOMI SHIHAB NYE EMANCIPATION by ELIZABETH ALEXANDER A DROP OF INK by CHARLES LOUIS HENRY WAGNER |
|