Classic Poem

Ma gaite

Deserting my poor lonely soul,
My Gaiety hath taken flight;
To sage or fool who brings her back
Heaven will the deed requite
All tends to aggravate my loss —
The faithless one, in act of flying,
Left my door open — Care got in —
He's always round us prying.
O bring her home again, all ye,
Whose comfort she was wont to be!

My Gaiety's a buxom nurse
For bachelor who's old and ailing!
To tend me, and to close mine eyes,
She should not now be failing.
Who does not know her features well?
To set my eyes once more on her,
Fame would I freely give, if I
Had any to confer
O bring her home again, all ye,
Whose comfort she was wont to be!

To her I owed, whate'er they're worth,
Those songs of mine, that oft would swell
From humble garret of the poor,
From prisoner's straw-laid cell
The madcap launching o'er the wave —
In Paris, always bold and jeering —
Through earth's remotest bounds, with Hope,
Our exiles would be cheering
O bring her home again, all ye,
Whose comfort she was wont to be!

" Cease, " cried she to great poets, " cease
Into the crack-brained to instil
Your dull despairings — Genius has
Its duties to fulfil.
For bark that squalls may overtake,
Let it like friendly light-house beam!
I'm but a glow-worm; yet I make
The night less gloomy seem.
O bring her home again, all ye,
Whose comfort she was wont be!

She hated luxury — at times
Was on philosophizing bent —
In cozy circle round the fire,
On pleasantry intent.
What charm was in her laugh! it brought
Tears to my eyes, devoid of pain:
The laugh has passed for aye away —
The tears alone remain.
O bring her home again, all ye,
Whose comfort she was wont to be!

She wrought on youth — warm hearts she fired;
Soft hearts to tenderness inclined;
Some madmen in our human race —
No villains could she find
In spite of stiff and formal fools,
How many a time would she displace
Reason's chill airs — from Wisdom's brow
Its wrinkles would efface!
O bring her home again, all ye,
Whose comfort she was wont to be!

But now we're giving Glory up;
All gods, but those of gold, we lack;
Ah! must I, in what's base confide?
My Gaiety come back!
Back to the poor old soul, o'er whom,
Deprived of thee, such gloom is cast —
Brain numbed, voice dying, blackened fire,
And lamp that flickers fast!
O bring her home again, all ye,
Whose comfort she was wont to be!