Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/344

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our south lands exposed to the warm sun are lying, You are going, dear friend, like the wind winged and flying,
 * Already the team seems to fret,

Impatient, unquiet, and with eyes wildly glancing, Brown beauty Toulouse, in thy sight to be prancing,
 * On thy plains that none can forget.

God guard you, my friend, but when you have skimmed lightly, O'er mountains, o'er vales, o'er blue streams that wind brightly,
 * Towns, hamlets and old citadels,

Vermilion Orleans, and Argenton's rocks hoary, And Limoges of the three graceful steeples—her glory,
 * Abundant in swallows and bells;

And Brives and its Corrèze, and Cahors vine-crownèd, Where Fénelon, swan in Homer's waters renowned,
 * Swam pleased in his long trails of light,

Stop, stop for a moment your car's course enchanted, To see the fair plain where the Moslem has planted
 * Your birthplace—far seen—city white;