France
1870.
Not dead,—oh no,—she cannot die!
Only a swoon, from loss of blood!
Levite England passes her by,
Help, Samaritan! None is nigh;
Who shall stanch me this sanguine flood?
Range the brown hair, it blinds her eyne,
Dash cold water over her face!
Drowned in her blood, she makes no sign,
Give her a draught of generous wine.
None heed, none hear, to do this grace.
Head of the human column, thus
Ever in swoon wilt thou remain?
Thought, Freedom, Truth, quenched ominous,
Whence then shall Hope arise for us,
Plunged in the darkness all again!
No, she stirs!—There’s a fire in her glance,
Ware, oh ware of that broken sword!
What, dare ye for an hour’s mischance,
Gather around her, jeering France,
Attila’s own exultant horde?
Lo, she stands up,—stands up e’en now,
Strong once more for the battle-fray,
Gleams bright the star, that from her brow
Lightens the world. Bow, nations, bow,
Let her again lead on the way!