A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/My Village (Justin Gensoul)
MY VILLAGE.
O fair sky of my native land,
How much I miss thee here!
And thee, O home—O sweet retreat!
I ever held so dear.
Canst thou not, Sun, that openest now
The summer's treasures free,
Give back to me my sky and home,
My life and gaiety?
Too common is the error sad
My reason that betrayed,
I dreamt of fortune and a name,
And from my country strayed;
By sad experience wiser grown,
With softer heart to-day,
My own dear village now I seek,
And my first friend, far away.
What calls me to that happy spot?
Why should I thither fare?
My mother slumbers there in peace,
And friendship waits me there.
O pleasant thoughts! like mighty charms,
My sadness lull to rest,
Dry up the tears that rise unbid,
And calm my heaving breast.
As an exotic fragile bud,
In some sad foreign coast,
Bends mourning on its feeble stalk
Beneath a heavy frost,
Thus in my youth,—alas! I bow,
As feeble as the flower;
But knowing in the grave is peace,
I welcome yet the hour.
An exile from my earliest prime,
Benumbed and chilled with cold,
I long to warm myself again,
Beside the hearth of old.
Arise each day—my native land,
In memory's longing eye!
In thee began my course of life,
In thee I wish to die.
A.