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PATRIA by Victor Hugo
     ("Là-haut, qui sourit.")

     {Bk. VII. vii., September, 1853.}
     Who smiles there? Is it
     A stray spirit,
     Or woman fair?
       Sombre yet soft the brow!
       Bow, nations, bow;
     O soul in air,
       Speak—what art thou?

     In grief the fair face seems—
     What means those sudden gleams?
     Our antique pride from dreams
     Starts up, and beams
     Its conquering glance,—
     To make our sad hearts dance,
     And wake in woods hushed long
     The wild bird's song.
     Angel of Day!
     Our Hope, Love, Stay,
     Thy countenance
       Lights land and sea
       Eternally,
     Thy name is France
       Or Verity.

     Fair angel in thy glass
     When vile things move or pass,
     Clouds in the skies amass;
     Terrible, alas!
     Thy stern commands are then:
     "Form your battalions, men,
     The flag display!"
     And all obey.
     Angel of might
     Sent kings to smite,
     The words in dark skies glance,
       "Mené, Mené," hiss
       Bolts that never miss!
     Thy name is France,
       Or Nemesis.

     As halcyons in May,
     O nations, in his ray
     Float and bask for aye,
     Nor know decay!
     One arm upraised to heaven
     Seals the past forgiven;
     One holds a sword
     To quell hell's horde,
     Angel of God!
     Thy wings stretch broad
       As heaven's expanse!
       To shield and free
       Humanity!
     Thy name is France,
      Or Liberty!

     {Footnote 1: Written to music by Beethoven.}


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