University of Virginia Library

A Frenchman thinks with many a fear
Of his one sister—very dear
Is she to him, a girl most fair.
He sees e'en now her dark-brown hair,
And inly speaks, “Herself a flower
She hawks sweet blossoms hour by hour
Through many a parched Parisian street,
Gladly, though oft with toil-worn feet.
'Tis she who wins the daily bread
And shelter for my father's head,
Since age and sickness disallow
Him strength to earn his living now;
While I, who should have been their stay,
Without appeal am forced away,
Simply because some men—whose aims
I do not know and scarce their names—
Have fixedly resolved on War.
And I—one of their human store—
Am made to face death at their will
Till kings and emperors have their fill.”
How strange are we! he who so dreamed
And all unpatriotic seemed,
When fierce again began the strife,
Fought with the best—cared not for life.

The vision changes, and he sees
The comely, the belovèd trees
That droop in summer's sultry blaze,
Along the white Parisian ways.
In one old street he sees a spot
Shaded by lime-trees: there is not
A cooler nook, and side by side
An old man and a maid abide
In sweet affectionate converse there,
To rest, to breathe its fresher air.
'Tis those he loves, and for a space
He treads himself that well-known place,
So keen his inner sight. And soon
His sister starts through afternoon
Long hours, and near the Tuileries
She stays, then moves along the quays.
She is so fair, so pure, so sweet,
She seems to gladden all the street.
And many glance at her, and smile;
They note her brave looks all the while,
They know her toil of every day,
Toil such as wears her youth away.
And one, an honest artisan,
A homely, upright, thrifty man,
Poring o'er some long cherished plan,
Passing, thinks, “Would she were my wife,
Happy were I though hard my life.”
And with a Frenchman's frugal care
He saves, and saving, dreams of her.
Although from childhood's earliest days
She knew the drear Parisian ways
(Gay to the rich, drear to the poor),
From every harm she walks secure,
From virtue none her steps allure.
In thought, in actions, she is good,
Kindness her constant habitude.
She raises soft and pleading eyes
With something of a chaste surprise
At many a word, at many a sight,
That comes to her by day, by night.
All innocence without, within,
She sees, yet sees not, all their sin.