To A NDRE G IDE

Sometimes at night before the fire I sit,
To ponder in that lonely hour of dream,
When o'er the hearth the ghosts of memory flit,
And dear dead faces in the embers gleam;
The days in multitudes beside me stream,
While joy recaptures many a province fair,
Glowing, and luminous, and debonair.

Little it matters where my dreams begin;
Since, like a feathery seed upon the wind,
Southward my fancy can but speed and spin,
Until beneath my poising brain I find
The soul of rustic loveliness, reclin'd
In some French woodland quivering to the west,
Or clad with flower-gold on some French hill's crest.

Sands of Dunkirk are not too cold for me;
Nor dales of Roussillon too full of fire;
Down Tarn and Lot my memory leaps in glee;
Long miles of poplar'd Anjou cannot tire
Feet that to frost-capp'd Dauphine aspire;
Shouting of waves which on black Penmarch fall —
Slow streams at Aiguis-Mortes — I love them all!

F RANCE ! take my hands in those kind hands of thine;
Like a chill swallow to thy fields I fly!
Warmth, beauty, calm and happiness are mine
When o'er me bends that soft and radiant sky,
When in that vivid atmosphere I sigh —
Sigh, for pure gladness, while my pulses dance
A joyful measure to the praise of France.