To France
When shall I tread thy fertile shores again,
Land of the warlike Gaul, salubrious France!—
Land of the wine-cup, festal song, and dance,—
Sweet lips, bright eyes, and hearts unknown to pain?
My visions are as strong—perchance as vain—
As those which haunt the captive in his cell,
When fancy conjures up his native dell,
With thoughts that make him half forget his chain.
Treasured in memory, thy charms have lain,
Since last I saw thee in the summer glow,
And wandered where Garonne's blue waters flow,
Through scenes where Bacchus holds his joyous reign:
I would in England that my grave should be,
But let my vigorous years, oh, France! be passed with thee!
Land of the warlike Gaul, salubrious France!—
Land of the wine-cup, festal song, and dance,—
Sweet lips, bright eyes, and hearts unknown to pain?
My visions are as strong—perchance as vain—
As those which haunt the captive in his cell,
When fancy conjures up his native dell,
With thoughts that make him half forget his chain.
Treasured in memory, thy charms have lain,
Since last I saw thee in the summer glow,
And wandered where Garonne's blue waters flow,
Through scenes where Bacchus holds his joyous reign:
I would in England that my grave should be,
But let my vigorous years, oh, France! be passed with thee!
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