yet may see
Your coming in our meadows sweet;
Where, midst the flowers, the finch's lay
Shall welcome
you with music gay;
While you shall bid our antique tongue
Some word devise, or air supply,
Like those
that charm'd your youth so long,
And lent a spell to memory.
Bethink you how we stray'd alone
Beneath
those elms in Agen grown,
That each an arch above us throws,
Like giants, hand-in-hand, in rows.
A
storm once struck a fav'rite tree,
It trembled, shook, and bent its boughs,--
The vista is no longer free:
Our
governor no pause allows;
"Bring hither hatchet, axe, and spade,
The tree must straight be prostrate
laid!"
But vainly strength and art were tried,
The stately tree all force defied;
Well might the elm resist
and foil their might,
For though his branches were decay'd to sight,
As many as his leaves the roots
spread round,
And in the firm set earth they slept profound.
Since then, more full, more green, more
gay,
The crests amid the breezes play:
And birds of every note and hue
Come trooping to his shade in
Spring;
Each summer they their lays renew,
And while the years endure they sing.
And thus it is, believe
me, sir,
With this enchantress--she we call
Our second mother; Frenchmen err
Who, cent'ries since, proclaimed
her fall.
No! she still lives, her words still ring,
Her children yet her carols sing;
And thousand years may
roll away
Before her magic notes decay.
September 2nd, 1837.

Riches, n'oubliez pas un seul petit moment
Que des pauvres la grande couvee
Se reveille toujours le sourire a la bouche
Quand elle s'endort sans avoir faire!

(Riche et Pauvre.)

The swallows fly about, although the air is cold,
Our once fair sun has shed his brightest
gold.
The fields decay
On All-saints day.
Ground's hard afoot,
The birds are mute;
The tree-tops shed
their chill'd and yellow leaves,
They dying fall, and whirl about in sheaves.
One night, when leaving late
a neighb'ring town,
Although the heavens were clear,
Two children paced along, with many a moan--
Brother and sister dear;
And when they reached the wayside cross
Upon their knees they fell, quite close.
Abel and Jane, by the moon's light,
Were long time silent quite;
As they before the altar bend,
With one
accord their voices sweet ascend.
"Mother of God, Virgin compassionate!
Oh! send thy angel to abate
The sickness of our father dear,
That mother may no longer fear--
And for us both! Oh! Blessed Mother,
We love thee, more and more, we two together!"
The Virgin doubtless heard their prayer,
For, when they
reached the cottage near,
The door before them opened wide,
And the dear mother, ere she turned
aside,
Cried out: "My children brave,
The fever's gone--your father's life is safe!
Now come, my little lambs,
and thank God for His grace."
In their small cot, forthwith the three,
To God in prayer did bend the knee,
Mother and children in their gladness weeping,
While on a sorry bed a man lay sleeping--
It was the
father, good Hilaire!
Not long ago, a soldier brave,
But now--a working mason's slave.
II.
The dawn next
day was clear and bright,
The glint of morning sunlight
Gleamed through the windows taper,
Although
they only were patched up with paper.
When Abel noiseless entered, with his foot-fall slight,
He slipped
along to the bedside;
He oped the little curtain, without stirring of the rings;
His father woke and smiled,
with joy that pleasure brings.
"Abel," he said, "I longed for thee; now listen thou to me:
We're very poor
indeed--I've nothing save my weekly fee;
But Heaven has helped our lives to save--by curing me.
Dear
boy, already thou art fifteen years--
You know to read, to write--then have no fears;
Thou art alone, thou'rt
sad, but dream no more,
Thou ought'st to work, for now thou hast the power!
I know thy pain and sorrow,
and thy deep alarms;
More good than strong--how could thy little arms
Ply hard the hammer on the stony
blocks?
But our hard master, though he likes good looks,
May find thee quite a youth;
He says that thou
hast spirit; and he means for thy behoof.
Then do what gives thee pleasure,
Without vain-glory, Abel; and
spend thy precious leisure
In writing or in working--each is a labour worthy,
Either with pen or hammer--
they are the tools most lofty;
Labour in mind or body, they do fatigue us ever--
But then, Abel my son,
I hope that never
One blush upon you e'er will gather
To shame the honour of your father."
Abel's blue
eyes were bright with bliss and joy--
Father rejoiced--four times embraced the boy;
Mother and daughter
mixed their tears and kisses,
Then Abel saw the master, to his happiness,
And afterwards four days did
pass,
All full of joyfulness.
But pleasure with the poor is always unenduring.
A brutal order had been
given on Sunday morning
That if, next day, the father did not show his face,
Another workman, in that
case,
Would be employed to take his place!
A shot of cannon filled with grape
Could not have caused
such grief,
As this most cruel order gives
To these four poor unfortunates.
"I'm cured!" Hilaire cried; "let
me rise and dress;"
He tried--fell back; and then he must confess
He could not labour for another week!