Et à minuit, de sa tombe Le chef se lève et sort; A pas lents il s’avance Suivi de l’état-major. Petit chapeau il porte, Habit sans ornemens, Petite épée pour arme Au côte gauche lui pend. La lune à pale lueur La vaste plaine éclaire; L’homme au petit chapeau Des troupes revue va faire. Les rangs présentent les armes, Lors sur l’épaule les mettant, Toute l’armée devant le chef Défile tambour battant. On voit former un cercle Des capitaines et généraux; An plus voisin à l’oreille Ce chef souffle un mot. Ce mot va à la ronde, Résonne le long de la Seine; Le mot donné est la France, La parole: Sainte-Hélène. C’est là la grande revue Qu’aux Champs-Élysées, A l’heure de minuit Tient César décédé. At midnight, from his grave The drummer woke and rose, And beating loud the drum, Forth on his round he goes. Stirred by his fleshless arms, The drumsticks patly fall, He beats the loud retreat, Réveille, and roll-call. So strangely rolls that drum, So deep it echoes round! Old soldiers in their graves Start to live at the sound. Both they in farthest north, Stiff in the ice that lay, And who too warm repose Beneath Italian clay. Below the mud of Nile, And ’neath Arabian sand; Their burial-place they quit, And soon to arms they stand. And at midnight, from his grave The trumpeter arose; And mounted on his horse, A loud shrill blast he blows. On aery coursers then The cavalry are seen, Old squadrons erst renown’d, Gory and gash’d, I ween. Beneath the casque their blanchèd skulls, Smile grim, and proud their air As in their bony hands Their long sharp swords they bear. And at midnight, from his tomb The chief awoke and rose; And followed by his staff, With slow steps on he goes. A little hat he wears, A coat quite plain has he, A little sword for arms, At his left side hangs free. O’er the vast plain the moon A paly lustre threw; The man with the little hat The troops goes to review. The ranks present their arms, Deep roll the drums the while, Recovering then, the troops Before the chief defile. Captains and gen’rals round In circle form’d appear; The chief to the first a word Then whispers in his ear. The word goes round the ranks, Resounds along the Seine; That word they give is—France, The answer—Sainte-Hélène. ’Tis there, at midnight hour, The grand review, they say, Is by dead Cæsar held, In the Champs-Élysées. VI