terça-feira, 11 de agosto de 2009

Art,—'t is a glory, a delight;
I' the tempest it holds fire-flight;
It irradiates the deep blue sky.
Art, splendour infinite,
On the brow of the People doth sit,
As a star in God's heaven most high.

Art,—'t is a broad-flowered plain
Where Peace holds beloved reign;
'T is the passionate unison
Of music the city hath made
With the country, the man with the maid,
All sweet songs made perfect in one!

Art,—'t is Humanity's thought
Which shatters chains century-wrought!
Art,—t'is the conqureror sweet!
Unto Art, each world-river, each sea!
Slave-People, 't is Art makes free;
Free People, 't is Art makes great!

O Chivalrous France! without cease
Chant loudly thy hymn of peace, —
Chant, with eyes fixed on the sky!
Thy joyous voice and profound
Through the slumbering world doth resound.
O noble People, chant high!

True People, chant gladly the dawn!
At even raise song at morn!
After labour sweet singing should be.
Laugh for the century o'erthrown!
Sing love in a tender tone,
And loudlier chant liberty!

Chant Italy sacred and sweet;
Poor Poland, slain sons at her feet;
Naples, whose heart-blood outpours;
Hungary, the Russian's base vaunt!
O tyrants! the People doth chant
Even as the lion roars.
--- Victor Hugo

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