Classic Poem

The brigantine
Rolls by the strand,
To bear me from
My native land.
O virgin Queen!
I turn to you:
Adieu, dear scene—
Provence, adieu!

When blows the gale,
My sire will see
My mother's cheek
Grow pale for me
O virgin Queen!
I turn to you:
Adieu, dear scene—
My sire, adieu!

The old Helene
Will trust, I'm sure,
Her nine days' prayer,
And sleep secure
O virgin Queen!
I turn to you:
Adieu, dear scene,
Helene, adieu!

My sister too
Will say this morn—
“I've had a dream,
He will return.”
O virgin Queen!
I turn to you:
Adieu, dear scene,
Sister, adieu!

Thy glance, Isaure,
Pursues my track;
Thy kerchief white
Invites me back!
O virgin Queen!
I turn to you:
Adieu, dear scene,
Isaure, adieu!

Thou blowest, breeze,
How harsh of thee,
When my Isaure
Would speak to me!
O virgin Queen!
I turn to you:
Adieu, dear scene,
And joy, adieu!