their approach. The national guard, the _federes_, the popular
societies, children, women, all that portion of the population which
lives on excitement of the streets, and runs after public spectacles,
flew to meet the Marseillais. Their bronzed faces, martial appearance,
eyes of fire, uniforms covered with the dust of their journey, their
Phrygian head-dress, their strange weapons, the guns they dragged after
them, the green branches which shaded their _bonnets rouges_, their
strange language mingled with oaths, and accentuated by savage gestures,
all struck the imagination of the multitude with great force. The
revolutionary idea appeared to have assumed the guise of a mortal, and
to be marching under the aspect of this horde, to the assault of the
last remnant of royalty. They entered the cities and villages beneath
triumphal arches. They sang terrible songs as they progressed. Couplets,
alternated by the regular noise of their feet on the road, and by the
sound of drums, resembled chorusses of the country and war, answering at
intervals to the clash of arms and weapons of death in a march to
combat. This song is graven on the soul of France.

XXVII.

THE MARSEILLAISE.

I.

Allons, enfants de la Patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrive!
Contre nous, de la tyrannie
L'etendart sanglant est leve.
Entendez-vous dans ces campagnes
Mugir ces feroces soldats!
Ils viennent jusque dans vos bras
Egorger vos fils et vos compagnes!--
Aux armes, citoyens! formez vos bataillons!
Marchons! qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons!

II.

Que veut cette horde d'esclaves,
De traitres, de rois conjures?
Pour qui ces ignobles entraves
Ces fers des longtemps prepares?
Francais, pour nous ah! quel outrage,
Quels transports il doit exciter!
C'est nous qu'on ose mediter
De rendre a l'antique esclavage;
Aux armes, &c.

III.

Quoi! des cohortes etrangeres
Feraient la loi dans nos foyers?
Quoi! ces phalanges mercenaires
Terrasseraient nos fiers guerriers?
Grand Dieu! par des mains enchainees,
Nos fronts sous le joug se ploieraient;
De vils despotes deviendraient
Les maitres de nos destinees!
Aux armes, &c.

IV.

Tremblez, tyrans! et vous, perfides,
L'opprobre de tous les partis!
Tremblez, vos projets parricides
Vont enfin recevoir leur prix!
Tout est soldat pour vous combattre:
S'ils tombent nos jeunes