THE MARSEILLAISE

E SONS of Freedom, wake to glory!

YR

Hark! hark! what myriads bid you rise!
Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary,
Behold their tears and hear their cries!
Shall hateful tyrants, mischiefs breeding,
With hireling hosts, a ruffian band,
Affright and desolate the land,
While peace and liberty lie bleeding?
To arms! to arms! ye brave!

The avenging sword unsheathe;
March on! march on! all hearts resolved
On victory or death!

Now, now the dangerous storm is rolling,
Which treacherous kings confederate raise;
The dogs of war, let loose, are howling,
And lo! our fields and cities blaze:

And shall we basely view the ruin,

While lawless force, with guilty stride,
Spreads desolation far and wide,

With crimes and blood his hands imbruing?
To arms! to arms! ye brave!

The avenging sword unsheathe;
March on! march on! all hearts resolved
On victory or death!

O Liberty! can man resign thee,

Once having felt thy generous flame?
Can dungeons, bolts, or bars confine thee?
Or whips thy noble spirit tame?
Too long the world has wept, bewailing
That falsehood's dagger tyrants wield;
But freedom is our sword and shield,
And all their arts are unavailing.

To arms! to arms! ye brave!
The avenging sword unsheathe;
March on march on! all hearts resolved
On victory or death!

(Abbreviated.)

ROUGET De Lisle.

THE DEPARTURE FOR SYRIA

(LE DÉPART 1809, POUR LA SYRIE)

[The music of this song, which was composed by Queen Hortense, mother of Napoleon III., became the national air of the French Empire.]

NO SYRIA young Dunois will go,

That gallant, handsome knight,
And prays the Virgin to bestow

Her blessing on the fight.

"O Thou who reign'st in heaven above,"
He prayed, "grant this to me:

The fairest maiden let me love,

The bravest warrior be."

He pledges then his knightly word,
His vow writes on the stone,
And following the count, his lord,
To battle he has gone.

To keep his oath he ever strove,

And sang aloud with glee,

"The fairest maid shall have my love,

And honor mine shall be."

Then said the count, "To thee we owe

Our victory, I confess;

Glory on me thou didst bestow,

I give thee happiness:

My daughter, whom I fondly love,

I gladly give to thee;

She, who is fair all maids above,
Should valor's guerdon be."

They kneel at Mary's altar both,-
The maid and gallant knight,-
And there with happy hearts their troth
Right solemnly they plight.

It was a sight all souls to move;

And all cried joyously,

"Give honor to the brave, and love

Shall beauty's guerdon be."

M. DE LABORDE.

THE WATCH ON THE RHINE

VOICE resounds like thunder-peal,

A 'Mid dashing waves and clang of steel:

"The Rhine, the Rhine, the German Rhine!

Who guards to-day my stream divine ?»

Chorus

Dear Fatherland, no danger thine:

Firm stand thy sons to watch the Rhine!

They stand, a hundred thousand strong,
Quick to avenge their country's wrong;
With filial love their bosoms swell,
They'll guard the sacred landmark well!

The dead of a heroic race

From heaven look down and meet their gaze;
They swear with dauntless heart, "O Rhine,
Be German as this breast of mine!"

While flows one drop of German blood,
Or sword remains to guard thy flood,
While rifle rests in patriot hand,-
No foe shall tread thy sacred strand!

Our oath resounds, the river flows,

In golden light our banner glows;
Our hearts will guard thy stream divine:
The Rhine, the Rhine, the German Rhine!

MAX SCHNECKENBURGER.

B

A CINQUE PORT

ELOW the down, the stranded town

What may betide forlornly waits;

With memories of smoky skies,

When Gallic navies crossed the straits, When waves with fire and blood grew bright, And cannon thundered through the night.

With swinging stride the rhythmic tide

Bore to the harbor barque and sloop;

Across the bar the ship of war,

In castled stern and lanterned poop,
Came up with conquests on her lee,
The stately mistress of the sea.

Where argosies have wooed the breeze,
The simple sheep are feeding now;
And near and far across the bar

The plowman whistles at the plow;
Where once the long waves washed the shore,
Larks from their lowly lodgings soar.

Below the down the stranded town

Hears far away the rollers beat;

About the wall the sea-birds call;

The salt wind murmurs through the street:
Forlorn, the sea's forsaken bride

Awaits the end that shall betide.

From Ballads and Songs.'

APRIL IN IRELAND

JOHN DAVIDSON.

HE hath a woven garland all of the sighing sedge,

SHE

And all her flowers are snowdrops grown in the winter's edge; The golden looms of Tir na n'Og wove all the winter through Her gown of mist and raindrops shot with a cloudy blue.

Sunlight she holds in one hand, and rain she scatters after,
And through the rainy twilight we hear her fitful laughter.
She shakes down on her flowers the snows less white than they,
Then quickens with her kisses the folded "knots o' May.»

She seeks the summer-lover that never shall be hers;
Fain for gold leaves of autumn she passes by the furze,
Though buried gold it hideth; she scorns her sedgy crown,
And pressing blindly sunwards she treads her snowdrops down.

Her gifts are all a fardel of wayward smiles and tears,
Yet hope she also holdeth, this daughter of the years-
A hope that blossoms faintly set upon sorrow's edge:
She hath a woven garland all of the sighing sedge.

NORA HOPPER.