A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/Après le Coup d'État (Victor Hugo)
APRÈS LE COUP D'ÉTAT.
Before foul treachery, and heads bent down,
I'll cross mine arms, indignant but serene,
O faith in fallen things,—be thou my crown,
My force, my joy, the prop on which I lean.
Yes, whilst he's there, or struggle some, or fall,
O France, dear France, for whom I weep in vain,
Tomb of my sires, nest of my loves,—my all,
I ne'er shall see thee with these eyes again.
I shall not see thy sad, sad, sounding shore,
France, save my duty, I shall all forget;
Amongst the true and tried, I'll tug mine oar,
And rest proscribed to spurn the fawning set.
O bitter exile, hard, without a term,
Thee I accept, nor seek, not care to know
Who have down-truckled 'mid the men deemed firm,
And who have fled, that should have fought the foe.
If true a thousand stand, with them I stand,
A hundred? 'Tis enough: we'll Sylla brave,
Ten? Put my name down foremost in the band,
One? Well, alone,—until I find my grave.