Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/65

Rh From thee, my native land! the wintry moan Of wind-swept forests, and the appalling frown Of icy floods. Yet didst thou leave them free To strike the sweet harp of the secret soul, And this was all their wealth. For this they blest Thy trackless wilds, and 'neath their lowly roof At morn and night, or with the murmuring swell Of stranger waters, blent their hymn of praise.

Green Vine! that mantlest in thy fresh embrace Yon old, grey rock, I hear that thou with them Didst brave the ocean surge. Say, drank thy germ The dews of Languedoc? or slow uncoiled An infant fibre, mid the fruitful mould Of smiling Roussillon? or didst thou shrink From the fierce footsteps of a warlike train, Brother with brother fighting unto death, At fair Rochelle? Hast thou no tale for me?

Methought its broad leaves shivered in the gale, With whispered words. There was a gentle form, A fair young creature, who at twilight hour Oft brought me water, and would kindly raise My drooping head. Her eyes were dark and soft, As the gazelle's, and well I knew her sigh