Poems Lyrical and Dramatic :: :: University of Virginia Library

Passenger, pilgrim in the land of fear,
The sound of Death's feet growing in thine ear,
The sight of Death's face rising on thy view,
What change in thee since this time yester-year!
Young Barbaroux.

Bright-haired Apollo with the hero's eyes,
That dreamest dreams too fair for earthly skies,
Man free and equal, all things fair and true,
What shadows dark across thy dream arise?
Young Barbaroux.

Where now thy France? where now the chosen band
Of thy companions? where the fair Roland?

All these are gone, and what thing left to you?
Perchance the gallows in some foreign land,
Young Barbaroux.

They come again to thee, the old sweet days,
Back in a tear-dimmed vision of dead praise;
The spires of Paris rise through morning's hue
Clad with the world's hope to thy spirit's gaze,
Young Barbaroux.

Thy word went forth, and all France heard the cry,
“Send me six hundred men prepared to die!”
To arms the Marseillese that moment flew,
For Greek blood burns yet 'neath Massilia's sky,
Young Barbaroux.

From sabres old they scour the gathered rust:
Who bids them die but the one man they trust?
The dusty roads have heard an anthem new,
Destined to shake the old world into dust,
Young Barbaroux.

Upon the Feast of late loud chimed the bell,
But Paris burns with smothered fires of hell,

For hopes may fail, and chiefs may prove untrue;
They enter Paris with a tiger's yell,
Young Barbaroux.

“Strike down the tyrant: citizens, to arms:
Form your battalions!” What high note alarms
The traitor snakes in Freedom's breast that grew?
Who now shall shield his France from all her harms?
Young Barbaroux.

And now 'mid strangers, with a broken pride,
Craving the crust withheld, the draught denied,
The straw begrudged beneath thine head to strew,
Thou wanderest through the great world bleak and wide,
Young Barbaroux.

Faithful to death, unchanged by fear or grief,
Clinging, brave boy, to thy sublime belief,
Clasp to thine heart the poor red, white and blue;
The seed shall spring yet from the ruined sheaf,
Young Barbaroux.

The flag, that covered France too short a while
With holy shade, now fear and blood defile,
And through the world deep threatening stormclouds brew.
Look through to clearer heavens beyond, and smile,
Young Barbaroux.

Freedom, her arm outstretched but lips firm set,
Freedom, her eyes with tears of pity wet,
But her robe splashed with drops of bloody dew,
Freedom, thy goddess, is our goddess yet,
Young Barbaroux.

Freedom, that tore the robe from kings away,
That clothed the beggar-child in warm array,
Freedom, the hand that raised, the hand that slew,
Freedom, divine then, is divine to-day,
Young Barbaroux.

We drown, we perish in a surging sea;
We are not equal, brotherly, nor free;—

Who from this death shall stoop and raise us? who?
Thy Freedom, and the memory of such as thee,
Young Barbaroux.