The Emigrant Mountaineer. From the French of Chateaubriand
How doth fond memory oft return
To that fair spot where I was born!
My sister, those were happy days
In lovely France.
O, country mine, my latest gaze
Shall turn to France!
Remember’st thou with what fond pride,
Our lowly cottage hearth beside,
She clasped us to her gladsome breast—
Our dearest mother;
While on her hair so white, we pressed
Kisses, together?
My sister, canst thou not recall
Doré, that bathed the castle wall,
And that old Moorish tower, war-worn
And grey,
From whence the gong struck out each morn
The break of day.
The tranquil lake doth mem’ry bring,
Where swallows poised on lightest wing;
The breeze by which the supple reed
Was bent,—
The setting sun whose glory filled
The firmament?
Rememberest thou that tender wife,
Dearest companion of my life?
While gathering wild flowers in the grove
So sweet,
Heart clung to heart, and Helen’s love
Flew mine to meet.
O give my Helen back to me,
My mountain, and my old oak tree!
Memory and pain, where’er I rove,
Entwine,
Dear country, with my heart’s deep love
Around thy shrine.