Mother and Child

By famine weakened and by numbers stricken,

Vainly they called to Louis' deafened ears;

Wantons alone could that base wanton quicken,

And our last hope went down in blood and tears.

Conquered? Oh, yes—the victors find us loyal

To oaths recorded, but our hearts go free;

They yearn across the deep with love as royal

As ever heroes gave, O France, to thee.

Despite neglect, the true-born child must cherish

Ever the mother, though she walked astray;

The duty of his soul can never perish,

Nor cease from hope to make her glad some day.

Never by force the filial bond is riven:

Because thy bosom to our lips did thrill,

Because thy blood throughout our veins is driven,

Because that thou art France, we love thee still.

Little it matter if neglect or distance

Hide us from her, as ocean fogs immense;

Ever her forehead's glorious persistence

Sublimely lifts a radiance intense.

It lightens round the world a beamy pleasure,

And, 'spite fierce thunderclaps that ominous roll

From dark events, we hear the racy measure

Of her fine humours freshening man's soul.

More sweetly fall her accents than the murmur

Of wakening birds saluting morning clear,

Her charming tones could come to us no firmer

Were the beloved lips against our ear.

Ever she glowed aloft, a brilliant vision

Enchanting Europe, even when Fates unkind

And Teuton victors voiced a vain derision,

Deeming her star eternally declined.

Though then the blind and shame-forgetting neighbour

Spat on her brow, insulting all her woe,

We saw her rise portending over Tabor

In splendour clearer than her Past could show.

Thou art, O France, to us the fertile Mother,

From whom the World an endless thirst allays;

Thou art the Eye, more piercing than all other,

Scanning through mists of Time man's coming days;

The Head that guides the Future's ship to haven;

The Hand that turns the mighty volume's page,

Whereon the Ideal's characters are graven

To inspire the human soul from age to age.

Behold, an hundred years have long been ended

Since vanquished France her weeping child forsook;

To manhood's strength the babe has far ascended,

His origin august beams in his look.

Wealthy and proud and free, by hardy training

In iron contests conquering adverse Fate,

Fighting enormous forests, slowly gaining,

To Progress all his energies vibrate.

Superbly labouring, Founder and Creator,

Soldier, Apostle, valorous Pioneer,

From arctic solitudes to thronged Equator

His furrowing keels plough down the arduous year.

Unsullied gleams his path when back he glances,

He eyes the morning, brave his youthful stride,

On trails of living light his course advances;

Henceforth the Child may claim the Mother's pride.