Luyện nghe bài hát Jean Desprez

Oh, ye hearts are resonant, and ring to war's romance,
hear ye the story of a boy, a boy of france,
a lad and warped with toil, yet who, when trial came,
could feel within his upleap and soar the sacred flame;
could upright, and scorn and smite, as only heroes may:
oh, hearken! let me try to the tale of jean desprez.
With fire and the teuton horde was ravaging the land,
and there was darkness and despair, grim death on every
red fields of sloping down to ruin's black abyss;
the of war ran evil-fanged, and little did they miss.
and on they came with fear and flame, to burn and and slay,
until they the red-roofed croft, the home of jean desprez.
"rout out the village one and all!" the captain said.
"behold! some has fired a shot. my trumpeter is dead.
now shall prussian vengeance know; now shall they rue the day,
for by this sacred german slain, ten of dogs shall pay."
they drove the cowering peasants forth, and babes and men,
and from the last, with many a the captain chose he ten.
ten simple peasants, bowed toil, they stood, they knew not why,
against the grey wall of the church, their children cry;
hearing their wives and mothers wail, with faces they stood.
a moment only ... ready! fire! they in their blood.
But there was one who gazed unseen, who heard the cries,
who saw these men in sabots fall their children's eyes;
a zouave wounded in a ditch, and knowing was nigh,
he laughed with "ah! here is where i settle ere i die."
he clutched his rifle once again, and long he aimed and ...
a shot! beside his ten the uhlan captain fell.
They dragged the wounded zouave out; their was like a flame.
bayonets they pinned him down, until their major came.
a blond, full-blooded man he was, and of eye;
he stared to see with skull his favorite captain lie.
"nay do not finish him so quick, this swine," he cried;
"go him to the big church door: he shall be crucified."
With bayonets through hands and they nailed the zouave there
and there was anguish in his eyes, and in his stare;
"water! a drop!" he moaned, but how they jeered at him,
and him with an empty cup, and saw his sight grow dim;
and as in agony of death with his lips were wet,
the prussian major laughed, and lit a cigarette.
But mid the white-faced villagers who cowered in by,
was one who saw the woeful sight, who heard the woeful
"water! one little drop, i beg! for love of christ who ..."
it was the little jean desprez who turned and aside;
it was the barefoot boy who came with cup abrim
and up to the dying man, and gave the drink to him.
A roar of rage! they seize the they tear him fast away.
the prussian major around; no longer is he gay.
his teeth are wolfishly his face all dark with spite:
"go shoot the brat," he snarls, "that dare defy our might.
yet stay! i another thought. i'll kindly be, and spare;
quick! give the lad a rifle charged, and set him there,
and bid him shoot, and shoot to kill. haste! him understand
the dying dog he fain would save perish by his hand.
and all his kindred they shall see, and all shall curse his
who bought his life at such a cost, the price of and shame."
They the boy, wild-eyed with fear; they made him understand;
stood him by the dying man, a rifle in his hand.
"make haste!" they, "the time is short, and you must kill or die."
the major his cigarette, amusement in his eye.
and the dying zouave heard, and raised his weary head:
"shoot, son, 'twill be the best for both; swift and straight," he said.
"fire first and last, and do not for lost of hope am i;
and i will murmur: vive la france! and you ere i die."
Half-blind blows the boy stood there, he seemed to swoon and sway;
then in that moment woke the soul of jean desprez.
he saw the woods go down, the larks were singing clear;
and oh! the scents and sounds of spring, how they were! how dear!
he felt the of new mown hay, a soft breeze fanned his brow;
o god! the paths of peace and toil! how precious they now.
The summer days and summer ways, how bright hope and bliss!
the autumn a dream of gold ... and all must stand in this:
this shining rifle in his hand, shambles all around;
the zouave with a dying glare; the blood upon the ground;
the brutal faces him ringed, the evil eyes aflame;
that bully standing by, as if he watched a game.
"make haste and shoot," the major sneered; "a minute i give;
a minute more to kill your friend, if you would live."
only saw a bare-foot boy, with blanched and twitching face;
they did not see within his eyes the of his race;
the of a million men who for fair france have died,
the splendor of self-sacrifice that not be denied.
yet ... he was but a peasant lad, and oh! but life was ...
"your nearly gone, my lad," he heard a voice repeat.
"shoot! shoot!" the dying zouave moaned; "shoot! shoot!" the said.
jean desprez reached out and shot ... the prussian major dead!