Classic Poem

La nostalgie, ou la maladie du pays

“Young rustic, come to Paris, come with us,” I heard you say,
“For this thy noble spirit yearns—its impulses obey!
Our wealth, the care we'll take of thee, thy studies, and the stage,
These soon will blot thy country lot from out thy memory's page”
I came, as you had bid me come; but look upon my face—
Scathed by so many fires, no sign of Spring thereon you trace:
Ah! give me back my village home, and the hills my native place!
Along my veins the fever holds its dull and chilling course;
But heedful still of your advice, I follow you, perforce,
To gay saloons where women reign as they were sovereign queens,
Though of home-sickness I, alas! must die amid such scenes
Vainly by study may my words be polished up with care;
Vainly I see your shows of Art, bewildered by the glare:
Ah! give me back my village home, and the pleasant Sundays there!
'Tis true that at our country wakes good cause have you to sneer,
Our thread-bare tales, our songs that jar so coarsely on the ear;
For, working wonders, just as though 'twere done by fairy sprite,
Your Opera would at once confound our sorcerers in their might
The very skies, when they bow down in homage to the Lord,
Might from your concerts borrow sounds of musical accord:
Ah! to my village-wakes and songs fain would I be restored!
Our lowly, straw-thatched roof, our church that crumbles to decay—
Some touches of disdain for these I cannot keep away,
Whilst here I mark your stately piles, that crowd upon my sight,
And more than all, your pompous Louvre, with gardens trim bedight
O magic palace! a mirage one might declare the glow
Of colors that the setting sun at times will o'er thee throw:
Ah! to my village, with its cots and steeples, let me go!
Convert the savage worshipper of idols, wood or stone—
About to die, he turns him back to gods that were his own:
Yonder my dog beside the hearth is listening for my tread;
My mother oft with tears recalls the parting words we said
A hundred times, the avalanche, the storm above my head,
I've fancied that I saw, and bears and wolves, the shepherd's dread:
Ah! give me back my village home, and my crook, and oaten bread!
But how is this? O Heavens, what sound for me oppressed with fear!
“Go, with to-morrow's dawn, away!” Your pleasant words I hear—
“Thy native air is all that thou dost need, thy tears to dry;
Go, bloom again beneath the sun that warmed thy youthful sky!”
Then, Paris, fare thee well, I go; thy smooth and brilliant chain,
That fetters many a stranger's steps, no longer can retain:
Ah! village home—ah! native hills—I see ye once again!