<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=119049" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To France</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mother of Freedom! Mother and fond nurse!<br>Who, from thy mighty loins, with awful throes<br>And cries of anguish bore her! what new woes<br>Encompass thee? What long-forgotten curse<br>Revives to chill thy soul and dull its seeing?<br>Veiled are thy falcon-glances, as in death:<br>Thou bleedest, France! and, sobbing, drawest breath,<br>Sore smitten by the thing thou gavest being!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Is this thine offspring—once so nobly fair<br>That at her look were riven human chains,<br>And all men blessed thee for thy travail pains?<br>Behold! with serpents writhing in her hair<br>She stands, Medusa-like, the world appalling!<br>Her bloodless cheeks bespeak the vampire's lust;<br>Her victims fall before her in the dust;<br>Yet, unappeased, she still would see them falling.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Is this blest Liberty, this treacherous thing<br>That hides its venom 'neath a mask of flowers,<br>That smites its own defenders, and devours</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The hands that feed it? This whose rancorous sting<br>Is uncontrolled by reason? Red and gory,<br>The standard it uplifts on land and sea<br>Reveals it truly, hell-born Anarchy!<br>Which borrows for its shame a name of glory.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Freedom disdains the cruel and the base,<br>Their praise she deems inexpiable wrong,<br>And in the homage of their savage song<br>She hears the voice of insult and disgrace.<br>Scorning the ransomed slaves who rule no better<br>Than the oppressors they in wrath hurl down,<br>Who make the Phrygian cap a despot's crown,<br>And others with their broken shackles fetter—</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She leaves them to the evils they invoke;<br>And listening to the voices of the wild,—<br>As listens for the mother's voice her child,—<br>Courting the tempest and the lightning-stroke,<br>She opens to the void her pinions regal:<br>The clouds, the skies, she knows to be her own,<br>And rising to the mountain-summits lone,<br>She rests where rock the eyries of the eagle!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Florence+Earle+Coates">Florence Earle Coates</a> from <i>Poems</i><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=119049" data-title="To France de Florence Earle Coates" data-description="Mother of Freedom! Mother and fond nurse!/Who, from thy mighty loins, with awful throes/And cries of anguish bore her! what new woes/Encompass thee? What long-forgotten curse/Revives to chill thy soul and dull its seeing?/Veiled are thy falcon-gla..."></div> </div> </div>

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