Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/353

320 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.