 | Songs and Poems from 1819 to 1879 |  |
26
LINES ON PASSING THROUGH FRANCE.
Can this be the land that war's tempest hath shaken,
The soil by the earthquake of anarchy torn,
Where the breeze only whispers the violet to waken,
And the hue of the violet is mocked by the morn?
Where woman's dark eyes, with expression still beaming,
Now charm by their sweetness, now awe by their blaze;
As warm as the sun-beams that round them are streaming,
And gay as the fountains that sport in their rays?
The soil by the earthquake of anarchy torn,
Where the breeze only whispers the violet to waken,
And the hue of the violet is mocked by the morn?
Where woman's dark eyes, with expression still beaming,
Now charm by their sweetness, now awe by their blaze;
As warm as the sun-beams that round them are streaming,
And gay as the fountains that sport in their rays?
Can this be the land, on which millions in madness
Have trampled the soil on which thousands have fled,
And wave its fair flow'rets in beauty and gladness,
O'er fields where the blood of its bravest was shed?
Ah! who could believe it that gazed on it now,
And viewed from its valleys of fountains and roses,
To the hill that bends o'er them with vine covered brow,
How calmly, how sweetly, all nature reposes?
Have trampled the soil on which thousands have fled,
And wave its fair flow'rets in beauty and gladness,
O'er fields where the blood of its bravest was shed?
Ah! who could believe it that gazed on it now,
And viewed from its valleys of fountains and roses,
To the hill that bends o'er them with vine covered brow,
How calmly, how sweetly, all nature reposes?
27
But such is the climate, and such are the souls
Of those who inhabit its paradise bowers;
Away with the tempest that over them rolls,
Sweep the gloom and the grief of its darkest of hours!
Awaken their fury, and instant it flies,
As swift as the death-shot, as fatal its force;
Like that, too, when past, there remains in the skies
No mark of its mischief, no track of its course.
Of those who inhabit its paradise bowers;
Away with the tempest that over them rolls,
Sweep the gloom and the grief of its darkest of hours!
Awaken their fury, and instant it flies,
As swift as the death-shot, as fatal its force;
Like that, too, when past, there remains in the skies
No mark of its mischief, no track of its course.
Paris, June 1, 1818.
| Songs and Poems from 1819 to 1879 | |