Classic Poem

If spangled fields should lose their every flower,
And woods their leaves;
If heaven should lose the stars that are its dower,
The sea its waves,
A palace proud, the glory of its king,
Its pearl, a ring,
These would be like to France, that now has lost
Your beauty bright,
Her flower, her precious pearl, her glory and boast,
Her star, her light. . . .

Scotland, I would that thou like Delos free
Couldst wander far
Nor e'er behold thy bright Queen from the sea
Rise like a star;
Till wearied with pursuit, she seek again
Her own Touraine.
Then should my lips o'erflow with songs, my tongue
Thrill with her praise,
Till like the swan my sweetest notes were sung
To end my days.