Classic Poem

Why mourn ye, why strew ye those flowrets around
To yon new-sodded grave, as ye slowly advance?
In yon new-sodded grave (ever dear be the ground)
Lies the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile of France.

And is the poor exile at rest from his woe,
No longer the sport of misfortune and chance?
Mourn on, village mourners, my tears too shall flow
For the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile of France.

Oh! kind was his nature, tho' bitter his fate,
And gay was his converse, tho' broken his heart;
No comfort, no hope, his own breast could elate,
Though comfort and hope he to all could impart.

Ever joyless himself, in the joys of the plain
Still foremost was he mirth and pleasure to raise;
How sad was his soul, yet how blithe was his strain,
When he sang the glad song of more fortunate days!

One pleasure he knew, in his straw-cover'd shed
The way-wearied beggar recruited to see,
One tear of delight he would drop o'er the bread
Which he shar'd with the poor, the still poorer than he.

And when round his death-bed profusely we cast
Every gift, every solace, our hamlet could bring,
He blest us with sighs which we thought were his last,
But he still breath'd a prayer for his Country and King.

Poor exile, adieu! undisturb'd be thy sleep—
From the feast, from the wake, from the village-green dance,
How oft shall we wander at moonlight to weep
O'er the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile of France!

To the church-bidden bride shall thy memory impart
One pang as her eyes on thy cold relics glance,
One flower from her garland, one tear from her heart,
Shall drop on the grave of the exile of France!