Page:Corinne - L. E. L.pdf/6

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Ye are, like them, the children of a sun Which kindles valour, concentrates the mind, Develops fancy, each one in its turn; Which lulls content, and seems to promise all, Or make us all forget.

Know ye the land where orange-trees are blooming; Where all heaven's rays are fertile, and with love? Have you inhaled these perfumes, luxury! In air already so fragrant and so soft? Now answer, strangers; Nature, in your home, Is she as generous or as beautiful?

Not only with vine-leaves and ears of corn Is Nature dress'd, but 'neath the feet of man, As at a sovereign's feet, she scatters flowers And sweet and useless plants, which, born to please, Disdain to serve.

Here pleasures delicate, by nature nurst,— Felt by a people who deserve to feel:— The simplest food suffices for their wants. What though her fountains flow with purple wine From the abundant soil, they drink them not! They love their sky, their arts, their monuments; Their land, the ancient, and yet bright with spring; Brilliant society; refined delight: Coarse pleasures, fitting to a savage race, Suit not with them.

Here the sensation blends with the idea; Life ever draws from the same fountain-head; The soul, like air, expands o'er earth and heaven. Here Genius feels at ease: its reveries Are here so gentle; its unrest is soothed: For one lost aim a thousand dreams are given, And nature cherishes, if man oppress; A gentle hand consoles, and binds the wound: E'en for the griefs that haunt the stricken heart, Is comfort here: by admiration fill’d, For God, all goodness; taught to penetrate The secret of his love; not thy brief days— Mysterious heralds of eternity— But in the fertile and majestic breast Of the immortal universe!