Luna

O France, although you sleep

We call you, we the forbidden!

The shadows have ears,

And the depths have cries.

Bitter, glory-less despotism

Over a discouraged people

Closes a black thick grate

Of error and prejudice;

It locks up the loyal swarm

Of firm thinkers, of heroes,

But the Idea with the flap of a wing

Will part the heavy bars,

And, as in ninety-one,

Will retake sovereign flight,

For breaking apart a cage of bronze

Is easy for bronze bird.

Darkness covers the world,

But the Idea illuminates and shines;

With its white brightness it floods

The dark blues of the night.

It is the solitary lantern,

The providential ray;

It is the lamp of the earth

That cannot help but light the sky.

It calms the suffering soul,

Guides life, puts the dead to rest;

It shows the mean the gulf,

It shows the just the way.

In seeing in the dark mist

The Idea, love of sad eyes,

Rise calm, serene and pure,

On the mysterious horizon,

Fanaticism and hatred

Roar before each threshhold,

As obscene hounds howl

When appears the moon in mourning.

Oh! Think of the mighty Idea,

Nations! its superhuman brow

Has upon it, from now on, the light

That will show the way to tomorrow!