_C'est lui qui dans Raba, sur les bords de l'Arnon_ _Guidait les descendans du malheureux Ammon,_ _Quand à Moloch leur dieu des mères gémissantes_ _Offraient de leurs enfans les entrailles fumantes._ _Il dicta de Jephté le serment inhumain;_ _Dans le cœur de sa fille il conduisait sa main._ _C'est lui qui, de Calchas ouvrant la bouche impie_ _Demanda par sa voix la mort d'Iphigénie._ _France, dans tes forêts il habita long-temps,_ _À l'affreux Tentatès il offrit ton encens._ _Tu n'a point oublié ces sacres homicides,_ _Qu' à tes indignes dieux présentaient tes druides._ _Du haut du capitole il criait aux Païens._ _"Frappez, exterminez, déchirez les chrétiens."_ _Mais lorsqu'au fils de Dieu Rome enfin, fut soumise,_ _Du capitole en cendre il passa dans l'Eglise;_ _Et dans les cœurs chrétiens inspirant ses fureurs,_ _De martyrs qu'ils étaient les fit persécuteurs._ _Dans Londres il a formé la secte turbulente_ _Qui sur un roi trop faible a mis sa main sanglante;_ _Dans Madrid, dans Lisbonne, il allume ces feux,_ _Ces buchers solennels où des Juifs malheureux_ _Sont tous les ans en pompe envoyés par des prêtres,_ _Pour n'avoir point quitté la foi de leurs ancêtres._ He comes; the fiend Fanaticism comes-- Religion's horrid and unnatural child-- Armed to defend her, arming to destroy-- Tearing her bosom in his feigned embrace. 'Twas he who guided Amnion's wretched race On Anion's banks, where mothers offered up Their children's mangled limbs on Moloch's altars. 'Twas he who prompted Jephthah's barbarous oath, And aimed the poniard at his daughter's heart. 'Twas he who spoke, when Calchas' impious tongue Called for the blameless Iphigenia's death. France, he long revelled in thy forest shades, Offering thy incense to the grim Tentâtes, Whetting the savage Druid's murderous knife To sate his worthless gods with human gore. He, from the Capitol, stirred Pagan hearts To exterminate Christ's followers; and he, When Rome herself had bowed to Christian truth, Quitted the Capitol to rule the church-- To reign supreme in every Christian soul, And make the Pagans martyrs in their turn. His were in England the fierce sect who laid Their bloody hands on a too feeble king. His are Madrid's and Lisbon's horrid fires, The yearly portion of unhappy Jews, By priestly judges doomed to temporal flames For thinking their forefathers' faith the best. You clearly see, then, that even so long ago I was your servant, your friend, your brother; although my father and mother had preserved to me my fore-skin.