A CROSS the sea that once was free now let the message leap
That France has won our Western hearts, and waked our souls from sleep!
Proud land! No more shall we mistake the shallows for the deep.

They knew her not who lightly thought her frivolously gay —
She who first taught our grimmer world the sanity of play;
They saw the birds that fly the nest but not the brood that stay.

And we who knew and loved her true and shared her welcome kind —
The welcome of her heart, and more, the welcome of her mind —
How could we know these newer bonds that evermore shall bind! —

That she, the Queen of Peace serene, who sought the sword no more, —
That she, the Queen of Art, who keeps the key of Beauty's door,
More royal than her royal lines, should be the Queen of War! —

For, though the years have drowned in tears her thrones and quarterings.
She, kingless, has not lost the proud residuum of kings:
Noblesse oblige is written fair on every flag she flings.

Let others plead a brutal need and compromise with faith,
And soil the robe of honor, and make of joy a wraith,
No taint of lie shall linger in any word she saith.

They reckoned ill who thought her will was sunk in sloth or pride,
Who held as weak her patience and on her feuds relied.
No power can lock the scabbards where thinking swords abide.

Oh, there is calm of Sabbath psalm and there is calm of woe,
And calm of slaves who never the calm of freemen know,
When, though the storm may tear the wave, the sea is calm below.

Upon the air no martial blare proclaimed the fateful call;
No drum need make the summons the spirit makes to all;
Not softlier to the solemn earth the autumn leaflets fall.

With gaze that saw far things of awe she stood as in a trance,
But faltered not before the shock of War's long-dreaded chance,
And every soul was born again — an effigy of France!

Oh, eyes that weep in lonely sleep but show no waking tear,
Oh, lips with their brave silences and lingering words of cheer:
What memories of parting have made the dangers dear!

And when the breath of icy Death sweeps like a winter rain,
And like a scythe the iron hail cuts down the human grain,
How bleed we with her wounded and sorrow for her slain!

And when beside the Marne's red tide — a lioness at bay —
She gave September unto Mars to make him holiday,
She saved with hers our kindred soil three thousand miles away.

How we acclaim Man's sacred name, as second unto God,
And deem our bond a brotherhood divine of cloud and clod!
Where are men fellows but in France, save underneath the sod?

Her heart a cup of joy filled up to greet the dancing day,
How willingly she spilled the wine and threw the cup away
That deserts yet unpeopled may live in peace for aye!

The triple watchword of her faith shall spread to every land,
Till free and equal comrades th' ennobled nations stand,
And all shall take the sacrament from her devoted hand.

And when Hate's last far crop is past, sown broadcast by the blind,
The memory of her chivalry shall stir in humankind
A love akin to bridal love, — the passion of the mind.

Envoi , TO THE R EPUBLIC

When Peace and Toil shall guard thy soil in all its ancient girth,
And Freedom, by thy fortitude, has found a newer birth,
We still shall cry, " My France, Our France, the France of all the Earth! "