|
so:text
|
The time is fast approaching when imprudent France,Surrounded by misfortune she might have spared herself,Will call to mind such hell as Dante painted.This day, O Queen! is near, no more can doubt remain,A hydra vile and cowardly, with his enormous hornsWill carry off the altar, throne, and Themis;In place of common sense, madness incredibleWill reign, and all be lawful to the wicked.Yea! Falling shall we see sceptre, censer, scales,Towers and escutcheons, even the white flag:Henceforth will all be fraud, murders and violence,Which we shall find instead of sweet repose.
Great streams of blood are flowing in each town;Sobs only do I hear, and exiles see!On all sides civil discord loudly roars,And uttering cries on all sides virtue flees,As from the assembly votes of death arise.Great God! who can reply to murderous judges?And on what brows august I see the sword descend! What monsters treated as the peers of heroes!Oppressors, oppressed, victors, vanquished . . .The storm reaches you all in turn, in this common wreck,What crimes, what evils, what appalling guilt,Menace the subjects, as the potentates!And more than one usurper triumphs in command,More than one heart misled is humbled and repents.At last, closing the abyss and born from a black tombThere rises a young lily, more happy, and more fair.' (en) |
