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!