Mother of revolutions, stern and sweet,
Thou of the red Commune's heroic days;
Unsheathe thy sword, let thy pent lightning blaze
Until these new .mw-parser-output .wst-tooltip{cursor:help;border-bottom:thin dotted cornflowerblue}.mw-parser-output .wst-tooltip-nodash{border-bottom:none}bastiles fall at thy feet.
Once more thy sons march down the ancient street
Led by pale men from silent Pere la Chaise;
Once more La Carmagnole—La Marseillaise
Blend with the war drum's quick and angry beat.
Ah, France—our—France—must they again endure
The crown of thorns upon the cross of death?
Is morning here.mw-parser-output .nowrap,.mw-parser-output .nowrap a:before,.mw-parser-output .nowrap .selflink:before{white-space:nowrap}. . .? Then speak that we may know!
The sky seems lighter but we are not sure.
Is morning here. . .? The whole world holds its breath
To hear the crimson Gallic rooster crow.