(After Chateaubriand)
OH sweet, how sweet old memories be
Of one most lovely place, to me—
My birthplace! Sister, fair those days
And free!
Oh France, be thou my love, my praise
Always!
Our mother—hath thy memory flown?—
Beside our humble chimney-stone
Pressed us against her heart, whilst you,
Dear one,
And I her white hair kissed anew,
We two.
Sweet little sister, dost recall
The stream that bathed the castle-wall?
The old round-tower whence came alway
The call
Of bells to banish night away
At day?
Dost thou recall the lake—how still!—
Where swallows skimmed at their sweet will?
The reeds, swayed by the gentle air
Until
The sun set on the waters there,
So fair?
Oh, who will give me my Helène?
My mountains, my great oak again?
Their memory brings with all my days
Fresh pain;
My land shall be my love, my praise
Always!