Classic Poem

Adieux de Marie Stuart.

Adieu, O France, sweet land, adieu!
For thee needs must my love run high:
Thy care my joyous childhood knew;
To quit thee — 'tis to die!

Thou chosen home, where fain I'd dwell,
But which, an exile, I must leave,
France, hear thy Mary's last farewell;
France, to her memory cleave.
The breeze is up, we quit the shore,
And Heaven, unheedful of my sighs,
To drive me back to thee once more,
Bids not a tempest rise.

Adieu, O France, sweet land, adieu!
For thee needs must my love run high:
Thy care my joyous childhood knew;
To quit thee — 'tis to die!

Dear subjects! when before the crowd
I donned the lilies, 'twas in truth,
Less to my rank supreme they bowed,
Than to my charms of youth.
The sombre Scots their queen await,
But regal grandeur all is vain;
If e'er I longed for queenly state —
O'er Frenchmen 'twas to reign!
Adieu, O France, sweet land, adieu!
For thee needs must my love run high:
Thy care my joyous childhood knew;
To quit thee — 'tis to die!

Of glory, gallantry, and wit,
Too deep I drank in youthful prime:
To sterner fate I must submit
In Scotland's rugged clime
Alas! oppressed with deadly awe
My sad foreboding heart must be:
O fatal dream! methought, I saw
A scaffold — raised for me
Adieu, O France, sweet land, adieu!
For thee needs must my love run high:
Thy care my joyous childhood knew;
To quit thee — 'tis to die!

Yes, France! when horrors round her sweep,
The Stuart's noble daughter — then,
As on this day that sees her weep —
To thee will turn again
But, Heavens! already glides our sail,
Too swift, beneath less welcome skies:
And night, within her humid veil,
Conceals thee from mine eyes!
Adieu, O France, sweet land, adieu!
For thee needs must my love run high:
Thy care my joyous childhood knew;
To quit thee — 'tis to die!