How memory through the lapse of years recalls the commune's rattle,
Brings back the time so grandly dread;
When Paris rose in Labor's name and gave the foeman battle,
And sealed her fate with hecatombs of dead.
Yes, memory loves to dwell upon the great defeat victorious
Made holy by the life-blood of the brave,
The sacrifice triumphant, for the peerless cause, the glorious,
And the radiant resurrection from the grave.
The blood goes surging through the heart, we hear the loud defiance,
The cry “To arms!” ringing over France,
And Paris calls the workingmen of Europe to alliance
And breaks the spell of twenty years of trance.
The chivalry are charging from the lowly homes of Labor,
Hear the shock, the shout of conquest from the hill,
When the trained assassins meet their match and fly with shivered sabre
From the heroes of the workroom and the mill.
See spreading far to left and right the battle line extended;
The fury of the onset—how the green
And blossom of the fair fresh fields becomes so darkly blended
With the crimson dye along the banks of the Seine.
The battles on the Versailles plain we see their grim emblazon;
The din, the crash of combat, smoke and flame;
And night and day the fortress guns strike loud the diapason
In the madness-moving music of War's game.
The two months! How many times the enemy's lines were routed
'Midst thunder from the cannon came the May,
Yet Paris held the Red Flag high, and still defiance shouted,
With the life-blood ebbing from her in the fray.
Fate's fearful shade grows blacker still, contracts the ring of fire,
Though fearlessly is given blow for blow;
And Paris, Labor's Mecca shrine, becomes a blazing pyre,
And nearer, ever nearer, comes the foe.
The line of battle broke at last; in every street and alley
Unflinchingly are crossed the bayonet blades,
And every inch of ground is fought where Freedom still can rally
A single man behind the barricades.
Not yet the time! The curtain falls, and, 'midst the lurid darkness,
Death looks on freedom's soldiers face to face;
And now, the time to try men's souls, in all his ghastly starkness
They meet him with the daring of their race.
But who can tell the story of the strife so great, Titanic?
Or who depict the glory of the fall
That shook the globe and scattered wide the dragon's teeth volcanic
To grow the armed crop to break the thrall?
We treasure in remembrance, too, the week of slaughter
When the butchers in their fury killed amain;
The murder of the thousands of the people's sons and daughters,
And the mitraillades and Satory's plain.
The glorious dead! They left their flag and willed us to preserve it
As red as when from their dead hands it fell,
To keep it free from spot and stain, and loyally to serve it,
As they did 'gainst the powers of earth and hell.
The Blood-Red Flag of Liberty! We'll guard it from pretenders,
From those who its red meaning would impugn,
And when it floats in battle breeze prove we as true defenders
As those who fought and died in the Commune.
Brings back the time so grandly dread;
When Paris rose in Labor's name and gave the foeman battle,
And sealed her fate with hecatombs of dead.
Yes, memory loves to dwell upon the great defeat victorious
Made holy by the life-blood of the brave,
The sacrifice triumphant, for the peerless cause, the glorious,
And the radiant resurrection from the grave.
The blood goes surging through the heart, we hear the loud defiance,
The cry “To arms!” ringing over France,
And Paris calls the workingmen of Europe to alliance
And breaks the spell of twenty years of trance.
The chivalry are charging from the lowly homes of Labor,
Hear the shock, the shout of conquest from the hill,
When the trained assassins meet their match and fly with shivered sabre
From the heroes of the workroom and the mill.
See spreading far to left and right the battle line extended;
The fury of the onset—how the green
And blossom of the fair fresh fields becomes so darkly blended
With the crimson dye along the banks of the Seine.
The battles on the Versailles plain we see their grim emblazon;
The din, the crash of combat, smoke and flame;
And night and day the fortress guns strike loud the diapason
In the madness-moving music of War's game.
The two months! How many times the enemy's lines were routed
'Midst thunder from the cannon came the May,
Yet Paris held the Red Flag high, and still defiance shouted,
With the life-blood ebbing from her in the fray.
Fate's fearful shade grows blacker still, contracts the ring of fire,
Though fearlessly is given blow for blow;
And Paris, Labor's Mecca shrine, becomes a blazing pyre,
And nearer, ever nearer, comes the foe.
The line of battle broke at last; in every street and alley
Unflinchingly are crossed the bayonet blades,
And every inch of ground is fought where Freedom still can rally
A single man behind the barricades.
Not yet the time! The curtain falls, and, 'midst the lurid darkness,
Death looks on freedom's soldiers face to face;
And now, the time to try men's souls, in all his ghastly starkness
They meet him with the daring of their race.
But who can tell the story of the strife so great, Titanic?
Or who depict the glory of the fall
That shook the globe and scattered wide the dragon's teeth volcanic
To grow the armed crop to break the thrall?
We treasure in remembrance, too, the week of slaughter
When the butchers in their fury killed amain;
The murder of the thousands of the people's sons and daughters,
And the mitraillades and Satory's plain.
The glorious dead! They left their flag and willed us to preserve it
As red as when from their dead hands it fell,
To keep it free from spot and stain, and loyally to serve it,
As they did 'gainst the powers of earth and hell.
The Blood-Red Flag of Liberty! We'll guard it from pretenders,
From those who its red meaning would impugn,
And when it floats in battle breeze prove we as true defenders
As those who fought and died in the Commune.