Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/262

After Noah, well! Aspasia the star-crowned I met,
And Socrates, I tried to console him in prison,
And Homer—dance, O my muse, and sing to the set!
Lest my Lares accuse me too justly of treason

Yesterday, while I stood on the step of my door,
Sudden illumined was the East—red, red, to the pole!
And what heard I afar? The wind of evening bore
To my ears, the loved airs of Jena and Arcole.
They've left, the young stoics—won't they take me for bard?
God bless them—the peasants, and their flag and its blazon!
Eighty-nine, thy proud memory they know how to guard,
I blessed them while passing—let fools call it treason.

Your laurel too darkly on a sad forehead lowers,
The laurels resemble cypress-leaves in their gloom;
For me, I would die amid fragrance and flowers,
Strew roses, fresh roses on my bier and my tomb!
Bends my head: 'tis from age, like a low whistling reed
It pines for free air and the welkin with reason.
Immortal!—I?—Chut! Nonsense! Death went by indeed,
Pray point out my house—'twill be friendship, not treason.