by Ω.
Originally published in The Metropolitan (James Cochrane) vol.1 #4 (Aug 1831).
"Aux armes! aux armes!" the tocsin sound—
What Frenchmen will be slaves?
"Aux armes! aux armes!" the streets resound,
"Our hearths shall be our graves:
His blood-hounds the tyrant hath loosed for their prey,
And the lives of our brothers will gorge them to-day:
But the slayers shall die
Where their victims lie;
On their necks shall the foot of the freeman tread,
And the crown shall be torn from the perjurer's head!
Aux armes! aux armes!
"Aux armes! aux armes! o'er heaps of slain
Come plant our freedom's tree;
Aux armes! aux armes! its trophies vain
Come rend from tyranny!
Who will not with pride to the combat hie?
'Tis the crown of all glory for freedom to die.
Our fallen standard rear,
Unfurl it from the spear;
Its texture is dipp'd in the bow of the skies,
It has waved o'er a hundred victories!
Aux armes! aux armes!
"Aux armes! aux armes! our brethren bleed;
Our streets are red with death:
Aux armes! aux armes! the fierce war-steed
Tramples out infant breath!
Our sisters die by the despot's band—
En avant! and be free our native land!
Youth and grey age unite
Amid the ranks of fight;—
Then France, in the brightness of Freedom's flame,
Shall consume the pale lily that brought her shame!
Aux armes! aux armes!"