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, etc.

From the French of CLAUDE JOSEPH ROUGET DE LISLE.

* * * * *

A COURT LADY.

  Her hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with purple were dark,
  Her cheeks’ pale opal burnt with a red and restless spark.

  Never was lady of Milan nobler in name and in race;
  Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the face.

  Never was lady on earth more true as woman and wife,
  Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder in manners and life.

  She stood in the early morning, and said to her maidens, “Bring
  That silken robe made ready to wear at the court of the king.

  “Bring me the clasps of diamonds, lucid, clear of the mote,
  Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp me the small at the throat.

  “Diamonds to fasten the hair, and diamonds to fasten the sleeves,
  Laces to drop from their rays, like a powder of snow from the eaves.”

  Gorgeous she entered the sunlight which gathered her up in a flame,
  While straight, in her open carriage, she to the hospital came.

  In she went at the door, and gazing, from end to end,
  “Many and low are the pallets, but each is the place of a friend.”

  Up she passed through the wards, and stood at a young man’s bed: 
  Bloody the band on his brow, and livid the droop of his head.

  “Art thou a Lombard, my brother?  Happy art thou!” she cried,
  And smiled like Italy on him:  he dreamed in her face and died.

  Pale with his passing soul, she went on still to a second: 
  He was a grave, hard man, whose years by dungeons were reckoned.

  Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in his life were sorer. 
  “Art thou a Romagnole?” Her eyes drove lightnings before her.

  “Austrian and priest had joined to double and tighten the cord
  Able to bind thee, O strong one,—­free by the stroke of a sword.

  “Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life overcast
  To ripen our wine of the present (too new) in glooms of the past.”

  Down she stepped to a pallet where lay a face like a girl’s,
  Young, pathetic with dying,—­a deep black hole in the curls.

  “Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and seest thou, dreaming in pain,
  Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the list of the slain?”

  Kind as a mother herself, she touched his cheeks with her hands: 
  “Blessed is she who has borne thee, although she should weep as she
          stands.”