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When France, her front deep-scar'd and gory,
Conceal'd with clust'ring wreaths of glory;
When insupportably advancing,
Her arm made mock'ry of the warrior's ramp,
While, timid looks of fury glancing,
Domestic treason, crush'd beneath her fatal stamp,
Writh'd, like a wounded dragon in his gore;
Then I reproach'd my fears that would not flee,
"And soon (I said) shall wisdom teach her lore
In the low huts of them that toil and groan!
And conqu'ring by her happiness alone,
Shall France compel the nations to be free,
Till love and joy look round, and call the earth their own!"
IV.
I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament,
From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent—
I hear thy groans upon her blood-stain'd streams!
Heroes, that for your peaceful country perish'd;
And ye, that fleeing spot the mountain snows
