Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/187

 Sad faith that cannot hope or fear, And memory grey with many a flowerless year.

Not that in stranger’s wise I lift not loving eyes To the fair foster-mother France, that gave Beyond the pale fleet foam Help to my sires and home, Whose great sweet breast could shelter those and save Whom from her nursing breasts and hands Their land cast forth of old on gentler lands.

Not without thoughts that ache For theirs and for thy sake, I, born of exiles, hail thy banished head; I whose young song took flight Toward the great heat and light On me a child from thy far splendour shed, From thine high place of soul and song, Which, fallen on eyes yet feeble, made them strong.

Ah, not with lessening love For memories born hereof, I look to that sweet mother-land, and see The old fields and fair full streams, And skies, but fled like dreams The feet of freedom and the thought of thee; And all between the skies and graves The mirth of mockers and the shame of slaves.