Classic Poem

WRITTEN AT DIJON .

Maid whom I love, would thou wert here!
Thy sun-bright smile, thy pensive tear,
Thy voice, would render doubly dear
 These scenes to me;
But thou art absent far, and I
Can only breathe thy name, and sigh,
And pledge this goblet, sparkling high,
 In France to thee.

Friend of my soul, long years have flown
Since this right hand has grasp'd thy own;
Waves and wild hills are barriers thrown
 'Twixt thee and me;
But there are records of the soul
Time cannot rase, or waves control:
I read them as I pledge this bowl
 In France to thee.

Land of my birth, thy green fields rise,
Like seamen's visions, to my eyes;
Land of the brave, the free, the wise,
 Degenerate he,
Who thy maternal lap has press'd,
Nor quaffs, when absent from thy breast,
One cup, the brightest and the best,
 In France to thee.

Nor oh! be thou forgot, fair clime,
Where nature blooms as in her prime,
Luxuriant, beautiful, sublime,
 From mount to sea;
Realm of blue skies, and vine-clad hills,
Ripe meads, green vales, and glittering rills,
A stranger this libation fills,
 Fair France, to thee!