France! at the hour when thou bow'st down,
The tyrant's foot upon thy head!
A voice shall ring from caverns brown,
At which the chained joy-tears shall shed.
The exile standing on the shore,
And looking at the star and wave,
Shall speak as prophets spake of yore,
Whom God a fearless puissance gave.
And then, his menaces of might,
Lightnings from east to west unrolled,
Shall pass athwart the sullen night,
Like glaves that unseen fingers hold.
Tremble, O mountain, to thy breast,
Deep-veined with marble, towering high!
Shiver, O tree with lofty crest,
To hear the words when they whirl by.
They'll have the trumpet's lofty sound,
The shriek that makes the ravens cower,
The still small breath, on graveyard mound,
That stirs the humble grass and flower.
