 | The high-top sweeting And Other Poems |  |
130
THE SWALLOWS.
From the French of Pierre de Béranger.
Held captive on the Moorish shore,
A soldier sighed beneath his chain;
“O swallows, ye have come once more!
With joy I mark your flight again.
Tender hopes have followed you
Even to this burning strand,
From the France which once I knew;
Tell me of my native land!
Birds of home! ye know so well,
Tell me, swallows, tell me of my country, tell!
A soldier sighed beneath his chain;
“O swallows, ye have come once more!
With joy I mark your flight again.
Tender hopes have followed you
Even to this burning strand,
From the France which once I knew;
Tell me of my native land!
Birds of home! ye know so well,
Tell me, swallows, tell me of my country, tell!
“Three years have ye not heard my prayer?
O swallows, bring me if ye may
Some tidings of the valley where
I dreamed my youthful years away!
By a winding stream serene,
Bowered by lilacs sweet and pale,
Oft our cottage ye have seen;
Tell me of that happy vale!
Birds of home! ye know so well,
Tell me, swallows, tell me of our cottage, tell!
O swallows, bring me if ye may
Some tidings of the valley where
I dreamed my youthful years away!
By a winding stream serene,
Bowered by lilacs sweet and pale,
Oft our cottage ye have seen;
Tell me of that happy vale!
Birds of home! ye know so well,
Tell me, swallows, tell me of our cottage, tell!
131
“Mayhap beneath its mossy eaves
Your life, as well as mine, begun.
You know how sore my mother grieves
And yearns to clasp the absent one.
Long she listens, but in vain,
Sounds of my returning feet,
Hearkens, weeps, and waits again
The wanderer to greet.
Birds of home! ye know so well,
Tell me, swallows, all her love and sorrow, tell!
Your life, as well as mine, begun.
You know how sore my mother grieves
And yearns to clasp the absent one.
Long she listens, but in vain,
Sounds of my returning feet,
Hearkens, weeps, and waits again
The wanderer to greet.
Birds of home! ye know so well,
Tell me, swallows, all her love and sorrow, tell!
“Companion of my childish play,—
My sister,—is she yet a bride?
And did our lads make glad the day,
With wedding songs of joy and pride?
Ah, those youthful friends of yore,
Have they ceased with war to roam?
Do they see our vale once more,
Our dear old village home?
Birds of France! ye know so well,
Tell me, swallows, tell me of my comrades, tell!
My sister,—is she yet a bride?
And did our lads make glad the day,
With wedding songs of joy and pride?
Ah, those youthful friends of yore,
Have they ceased with war to roam?
Do they see our vale once more,
Our dear old village home?
Birds of France! ye know so well,
Tell me, swallows, tell me of my comrades, tell!
“Perhaps a rude invading throng
Exult their fallen forms above,
And load with deep and bitter wrong
The helpless objects of my love.
Ah, no more my mother's prayer
Shall I hear arise for me!
Weary fetters I must wear
In this far captivity.
Birds of France! ye know so well,
Tell me, swallows, tell me of my country, tell!”
Exult their fallen forms above,
And load with deep and bitter wrong
The helpless objects of my love.
132
Shall I hear arise for me!
Weary fetters I must wear
In this far captivity.
Birds of France! ye know so well,
Tell me, swallows, tell me of my country, tell!”
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