A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/To Those Who Sleep (Les Châtiments, Victor Hugo)
Enough of shame—awake, Time cries,
To brave the bullets and the guns,
Still at its hour the tide must rise,
And France relies upon her sons.
Now tuck up sleeves of blouses blue,
Remember, the men of Ninety-two
Dared twenty kings on battle plains—
Bastilles again and vilest chains!
What, when the sires could Titans brave,
Shall dwarfs like these the sons enslave?
Sweep away the tyrant, and his bandits accurst!
God, God is with you, let Baal's priests do their worst!
God is king over all.
Before Him who is strong? Lo! He lifts up His hand,
And the tigers fly howling through deserts of sand,
And the sea-serpents crawl,
Obedient and meek! He breathes on idols of gold
In their temples of marble, gigantic and old,
And like Dagon they fall!
You are not armed? It matters not,
Tear out the hinges of the door!
A hammer has deliverance wrought;
David had pebbles from the shore.
Shout for the Cause—the flag advance!
Become once more the mighty France!
Paw as of old—with lowering horn!
Deliver, amid blood and smoke,
Your country from the despot's yoke,
Your memory from contempt and scorn.
What, know ye not, the Royalists themselves were great
In the fierce days of struggle past away? Men relate
What courage urged them on.
Valour in those times added a foot to men's height,
Witness, O Vendée, if I speak not aright!
Witness, thou land Breton!
To conquer a bastion, or to break through a wall,
Or spike a whole battery 'mid rain-showers of ball,
Often one man has gone!
If in this sink still, still men live,
If Frenchmen still, still act as slaves,
Trumpets and drums be broken,—give
Their fragments to the breezes. Graves
Of our sires where slumber deep
The old race, stir no more, but keep
Their shades in closest prison bound:
For never could they—would they own
Such dastard sons; nor hare nor hound
The lion breeds, but whelps alone.