From a wildered multitude.
They come! They come!
Point the cannon—roll the drum;
Thousands wail and weep with hunger—
Faster let your soldiers number.
Sword, and gun, and bayonet
A famished people's cries have met.

Hark! the onward heavy tread—
Hark! the voices rude—
'Tis the famished cry for Bread
From an armed multitude.
They come! They come!
Not with meek submission's hum.
Bloody trophy they have won,
Ghastly glares it in the sun—
Gory head on lifted pike.
Ha! they weep not now, but strike.

Ye, the deaf ones to their cries—
Ye, who scorned their agonies—
'Tis no longer prayers for bread
Shriek in your ears the famishÉd;
But wildly, fiercely, peal on peal,
Resoundeth—Down with the Bastile!
Can ye tame a people now?
Try them—flatter, promise, vow,
Swear their wrongs shall be redressed—
But patience—time will do the rest;
Swear they shall one day be fed—
Hark! the People—Dead for Dead!

Calculating statesmen, quail;
Proud aristocrat, grow pale;
Savage sounds that deathly song:
Down with tyrants! Down with wrong!
Blindly now they wreak revenge—
How rudely do a mob avenge!
What! coronetted Prince or Peer,
Will not the base-born slavelings fear
Sooth, their cry is somewhat stern:
Aristocrats, À la Lanterne!
Ghastly fruit their lances bear—
Noble heads with streaming hair;
Diadem and kingly crown
Strike the famine-stricken down.
Now, the People's work is done—
On they stride o'er prostrate throne;
Royal blood of King and Queen
Streameth from the guillotine;
Wildly on the people goeth,
Reaping what the noble soweth.
Little dreamed he, prince or peer,
Of who should be his heritor.
Hunger now, at last, is sated
In halls where once it wailed and waited;
Wild Justice fiercely rives the laws
Which failed to right a people's cause.
On that human ocean floweth,
Whither stops it no one knoweth—
Surge the wild waves in their strength
Against all chartered rights at length—
Throne, and King, and Noble fall;
But the People—they hold Carnival!