ROBERT OF NORMANDY.
69
Tender and beautiful—I could forgive
The wrongs that made me captive, and would live,
My own dear land, for thee! would live for thee,
Even in hopeless, stern captivity.
But thou art distant far—I may not roam,
Thy grove-crowned hills again—my own, my home,
Fain would I lay my weary head upon
Thy tranquil bosom—for the day is done,
And night draws darkly round—and I would rest,
Would rest in peace on thy maternal breast.
The wrongs that made me captive, and would live,
My own dear land, for thee! would live for thee,
Even in hopeless, stern captivity.
But thou art distant far—I may not roam,
Thy grove-crowned hills again—my own, my home,
Fain would I lay my weary head upon
Thy tranquil bosom—for the day is done,
And night draws darkly round—and I would rest,
Would rest in peace on thy maternal breast.
But 0, for those sweet songs that haunt me yet,
Like far-off music when the stars have set;
My soul will not forget them—they are wound
So round my heart, and with my being bound,
That to undo would break. I fain would hear
Their melody once more upon my ear,
And in my heart—ere from its prison-home,
Like sea-bird floating homeward o'er the foam,
My wearied soul escapes—I pine, I die,
For thy familiar airs, my Normandy!
Like far-off music when the stars have set;
My soul will not forget them—they are wound
So round my heart, and with my being bound,
That to undo would break. I fain would hear
Their melody once more upon my ear,
And in my heart—ere from its prison-home,
Like sea-bird floating homeward o'er the foam,
My wearied soul escapes—I pine, I die,
For thy familiar airs, my Normandy!
