Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
France: Vols. IX–X. 1876–79.

Introductory

The Marseillaise

By Rouget de Lisle (1760–1836)

Translated by John Oxenford

COME, children of your country, come,

New glory dawns upon the world,

Our tyrants, rushing to their doom,

Their bloody standard have unfurled;

Already on our plains we hear

The murmurs of a savage horde;

They threaten with the murderous sword

Your comrades and your children dear.

Then up, and form your ranks, the hireling foe withstand;

March on,—his craven blood must fertilize the land.

Those banded serfs,—what would they have,

By tyrant kings together brought?

Whom are those fetters to enslave

Which long ago their hands have wrought?

You, Frenchmen, you they would enchain;

Doth not the thought your bosoms fire?

The ancient bondage they desire

To force upon your necks again.

Then up, and form your ranks, the hireling foe withstand;

March on,—his craven blood must fertilize the land.

Those marshalled foreigners,—shall they

Make laws to reach the Frenchman’s hearth?

Shall hireling troops who fight for pay

Strike down our warriors to the earth?

God! shall we bow beneath the weight

Of hands that slavish fetters wear?

Shall ruthless despots once more dare

To be the masters of our fate?

Then up, and form your ranks, the hireling foe withstand;

March on,—his craven blood must fertilize the land.

Then tremble, tyrants,—traitors all,—

Ye, whom both friends and foes despise;

On you shall retribution fall,

Your crimes shall gain a worthy prize.

Each man opposes might to might;

And when our youthful heroes die

Our France can well their place supply;

We ’re soldiers all with you to fight.

Then up, and form your ranks, the hireling foe withstand;

March on,—his craven blood must fertilize the land.

Yet, generous warriors, still forbear

To deal on all your vengeful blows;

The train of hapless victims spare,

Against their will they are our foes.

But O, those despots stained with blood,

Those traitors leagued with base Bouillé,

Who make their native land their prey;—

Death to the savage tiger-brood!

Then up, and form your ranks, the hireling foe withstand;

March on,—his craven blood must fertilize the land.

And when our glorious sires are dead,

Their virtues we shall surely find

When on the selfsame path we tread,

And track the fame they leave behind.

Less to survive them we desire

Than to partake their noble grave;

The proud ambition we shall have

To live for vengeance or expire.

Then up, and form your ranks, the hireling foe withstand;

March on,—his craven blood must fertilize the land.

Come, love of country, guide us now,

Endow our vengeful arms with might,

And, dearest liberty, do thou

Aid thy defenders in the fight.

Unto our flags let victory,

Called by thy stirring accents, haste;

And may thy dying foes at last

Thy triumph and our glory see.

Then up, and form your ranks, the hireling foe withstand;

March on,—his craven blood must fertilize the land.

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