Achsa White Sprague

Nov. 17, 1827 - Jul. 6, 1862


A Voice From France, 1848

by Achsa White Sprague

There's a rushing sound like a mighty wind
In Paris' crowded street,
There's a murmur like the ocean's roar,
And the sound of many feet.

Down, down with the King! bursts forth from the throng;
Let him mingle in the dust;
From the princely halls of the Tuileries
Let the throne be rudely thrust!

Let the symbols dark of a king's proud reign,
No more be seen in our land;
Let us rise, and free ourselves from the scourge
Of a tyrant's bloody hand!

Shall we tremble still at a king's stern frown,
And like cowards turn and flee,
When with efforts brave, and a dauntless heart,
We might all as well be free?

Let us raise the flag, the tri-colored flag,
That has oft to victory led,
When our countrymen fought at Napoleon's side,
And their blood was freely shed,

And teach the broad world that we will be free
That the victory shall be ours;
Although no Napoleon wins the fight,
We've a brighter, better power.

For the God of truth and liberty now
Will guide us on by his might,
Till the land shall hold no slave to base power,
But all have a freeman's right.

Then let us arise, and burst the chains
That were forged by a tyrant's hand;
Let us plant the Tree of Liberty now,
That forevermore shall stand.

An early poem, composed during sickness.


The Poet And Other Poems.
Copyright 1864
Boston: William White And Co.,
158 Washington Street.