There's not a deeper grief to man
Than when our mother, faint with years,
Decrepit, old, and weak, and wan,
Beyond the leech's art appears;
When by her couch her son may stay,
And press her hand, and watch her eyes,
And feel, though she survives to-day,
Perchance his hope to-morrow dies.

It is not thus, believe me, Sir,
With this enchantress, we will call
Our second mother. Frenchmen err,
Who cent'ries since proclaimed her fall!
Our mother tongue, all melody,
While music lives, shall never die.

Yes! still she lives, her words still ring,
Her children yet her carols sing;
And thousand years may roll away
Before her magic notes decay.

The people love their ancient songs, and will
While yet a people, love and keep them still.
These lays are like their mother—they recall
Fond thoughts of brother, sister, friends, and all
The many little things that please the heart—
Those dreams and hopes, from which we cannot part;
These songs are as sweet waters, where we find
Health in the sparkling wave that nerves the mind.
In every home, at every cottage door,
By every fireside, when our toil is o'er,
These songs are round us, near our cradles sigh,
And to the grave attend us when we die.

Oh! think, cold critic! 'twill be late and long
Ere time shall sweep away this flood of song!
There are who bid this music sound no more,
And you can hear them, nor defend—deplore!
You, who were born where the first daisies grew,
Have 'fed upon its honey, sipp'd its dew,
Slept in its arms, and wakened to its kiss,
Danced to its sounds, and warbled to its tone—
You can forsake it in an hour like this!
Weary of age, you may renounce, disown,
And blame one minstrel who is true—alone!

For me, truth to my eyes made all things plain;
At Paris, the great fount, I did not find
The waters pure, and to my stream again
I come, with saddened and with sobered mind;
And now the spell is broken, and I rate
The little country far above the great.

For you, who seem her sorrows to deplore,
You, seated high in power, the first among,
Beware! nor make her cause of grief the more;
Believe her mis'ry, nor condemn her tongue.
Methinks you injure where you seek to heal,
If you deprive her of that only weal.

We love, alas! to sing in our distress;
For so the bitterness of woe seems less;
But if we may not in our language mourn,
What will the polish'd give us in return?
Fine sentences, but all for us unmeet—
Words full of grace, even such as courtiers greet:
A deck'd out miss, too delicate and nice
To walk in fields; too tender and precise
To sing the chorus of the poor, or come
When Labour lays him down fatigued at home.

To cover rags with gilded robes were vain—
The rents of poverty would show too plain.

How would this dainty dame, with haughty brow,
Shrink at a load, and shudder at a plough!
Sulky, and piqued, and silent would she stand
As the tired peasant urged his team along:
No word of kind encouragement at hand,
For flocks no welcome, and for herds no song!

Yet we will learn, and you shall teach—
Our people shall have double speech:
One to be homely, one polite,
As you have robes for different wear;
But this is all:—'tis just and right,
And more our children will not bear,
Lest flocks of buzzards flit along,
Where nightingales once poured their song.

There may be some who, vain and proud,
May ape the manners of the crowd,
Lisp French, and maim it at each word,
And jest and gibe to all afford;
But we, as in long ages past,
Will still be poets to the last!{1}

Hark! and list the bridal song,
As they lead the bride along:
"Hear, gentle bride! your mother's sighs,
And you would hence away!
Weep, weep, for tears become those eyes."
——"I cannot weep—to-day."

Hark! the farmer in the mead
Bids the shepherd swain take heed:
"Come, your lambs together fold,
Haste, my sons! your toil is o'er:
For the setting sun has told
That the ox should work no more."

Hark! the cooper in the shade
Sings to the sound his hammer made:
"Strike, comrades, strike! prepare the cask.
'Tis lusty May that fills the flask:
Strike, comrades! summer suns that shine
Fill the cellars full of wine."

Verse is, with us, a charm divine,
Our people, loving verse, will still,
Unknowing of their art, entwine
Garlands of poesy at will.
Their simple language suits them best:
Then let them keep it and be blest.

Let the wise critics build a wall
Between the nurse's cherished voice,
And the fond ear her words enthral,
And say their idol is her choice.
Yes!—let our fingers feel the rule,
The angry chiding of the school;
True to our nurse, in good or ill,
We are not French, but Gascon still.

'Tis said that age new feeling brings,
Our youth returns as we grow old;
And that we love again the things
Which in our memory had grown cold.
If this be true, the time will come
When to our ancient tongue, once more,
You will return, as to a home,
And thank us that we kept the store.

Remember thou the tale they tell
Of Lacuee and Lacepede,{2}
When age crept on, who loved to dwell
On words that once their music made;
And, in the midst of grandeur, hung,
Delighted, on their parent tongue.

This will you do: and it may be,
When weary of the world's deceit,
Some summer-day we yet may see
Your coming in our meadows sweet;
Where, midst the flowers, the finch's lay
Shall welcome you with music gay;
While you shall bid our antique tongue
Some word devise, or air supply,
Like those that charm'd your youth so long,
And lent a spell to memory.

Bethink you how we stray'd alone
Beneath those elms in Agen grown,
That each an arch above us throws,
Like giants, hand-in-hand, in rows.
A storm once struck a fav'rite tree,
It trembled, shook, and bent its boughs,—
The vista is no longer free:
Our governor no pause allows;
"Bring hither hatchet, axe, and spade,
The tree must straight be prostrate laid!"

But vainly strength and art were tried,
The stately tree all force defied;
Well might the elm resist and foil their might,
For though his branches were decay'd to sight,
As many as his leaves the roots spread round,
And in the firm set earth they slept profound.

Since then, more full, more green, more gay,
The crests amid the breezes play:
And birds of every note and hue
Come trooping to his shade in Spring;
Each summer they their lays renew,
And while the years endure they sing.

And thus it is, believe me, sir,
With this enchantress—she we call
Our second mother; Frenchmen err
Who, cent'ries since, proclaimed her fall.

No! she still lives, her words still ring,
Her children yet her carols sing;
And thousand years may roll away
Before her magic notes decay.

September 2nd, 1837.

Riches, n'oubliez pas un seul petit moment
Que des pauvres la grande couvee
Se reveille toujours le sourire a la bouche
Quand elle s'endort sans avoir faire!

(Riche et Pauvre.)

The swallows fly about, although the air is cold,
Our once fair sun has shed his brightest gold.
The fields decay
On All-saints day.
Ground's hard afoot,
The birds are mute;
The tree-tops shed their chill'd and yellow leaves,
They dying fall, and whirl about in sheaves.

One night, when leaving late a neighb'ring town,
Although the heavens were clear,
Two children paced along, with many a moan—
Brother and sister dear;
And when they reached the wayside cross
Upon their knees they fell, quite close.

Abel and Jane, by the moon's light,
Were long time silent quite;
As they before the altar bend,
With one accord their voices sweet ascend.

"Mother of God, Virgin compassionate!
Oh! send thy angel to abate
The sickness of our father dear,
That mother may no longer fear—
And for us both! Oh! Blessed Mother,
We love thee, more and more, we two together!"

The Virgin doubtless heard their prayer,
For, when they reached the cottage near,
The door before them opened wide,
And the dear mother, ere she turned aside,
Cried out: "My children brave,
The fever's gone—your father's life is safe!
Now come, my little lambs, and thank God for His grace."

In their small cot, forthwith the three,
To God in prayer did bend the knee,
Mother and children in their gladness weeping,
While on a sorry bed a man lay sleeping—
It was the father, good Hilaire!
Not long ago, a soldier brave,
But now—a working mason's slave.

II.

The dawn next day was clear and bright,
The glint of morning sunlight
Gleamed through the windows taper,
Although they only were patched up with paper.

When Abel noiseless entered, with his foot-fall slight,
He slipped along to the bedside;
He oped the little curtain, without stirring of the rings;
His father woke and smiled, with joy that pleasure brings.

"Abel," he said, "I longed for thee; now listen thou to me:
We're very poor indeed—I've nothing save my weekly fee;
But Heaven has helped our lives to save—by curing me.
Dear boy, already thou art fifteen years—
You know to read, to write—then have no fears;
Thou art alone, thou'rt sad, but dream no more,
Thou ought'st to work, for now thou hast the power!
I know thy pain and sorrow, and thy deep alarms;
More good than strong—how could thy little arms
Ply hard the hammer on the stony blocks?
But our hard master, though he likes good looks,
May find thee quite a youth;
He says that thou hast spirit; and he means for thy behoof.
Then do what gives thee pleasure,
Without vain-glory, Abel; and spend thy precious leisure
In writing or in working—each is a labour worthy,
Either with pen or hammer—they are the tools most lofty;
Labour in mind or body, they do fatigue us ever—
But then, Abel my son, I hope that never
One blush upon you e'er will gather
To shame the honour of your father."

Abel's blue eyes were bright with bliss and joy—
Father rejoiced—four times embraced the boy;
Mother and daughter mixed their tears and kisses,
Then Abel saw the master, to his happiness,
And afterwards four days did pass,
All full of joyfulness.
But pleasure with the poor is always unenduring.

A brutal order had been given on Sunday morning
That if, next day, the father did not show his face,
Another workman, in that case,
Would be employed to take his place!
A shot of cannon filled with grape
Could not have caused such grief,
As this most cruel order gives
To these four poor unfortunates.

"I'm cured!" Hilaire cried; "let me rise and dress;"
He tried—fell back; and then he must confess
He could not labour for another week!
Oh, wretched plight—
For him, his work was life!
Should he keep sick, 'twas death!
All four sat mute; sudden a my of hope
Beamed in the soul of Abel.
He brushed the tear-drops from his een,
Assumed a manly mien,

Strength rushed into his little arms,
On his bright face the blushes came;
He rose at once, and went to reason
With that cruel master mason.

Abel returned, with spirits bright,
No longer trembling with affright;
At once he gaily cries,
With laughing mouth and laughing eyes:—

"My father! take your rest; have faith and courage;
Take all the week, then thou shalt work apace;
Some one, who loves thee well, will take thy place,
Then thou may'st go again and show thy face."

III.

Saved by a friend, indeed! He yet had friends in store!
Oh! how I wish that in this life so lonely....
But, all will be explained at work on Monday;
There are good friends as yet—perhaps there's many more.

It was indeed our Abel took his father's place.
At office first he showed his face;
Then to the work-yard: thus his father he beguiled.
Spite of his slender mien, he worked and always smiled.
He was as deft as workmen twain; he dressed
The stones, and in the mortar then he pressed
The heavy blocks; the workmen found him cheerful.
Mounting the ladder like a bird:
He skipped across the rafters fearful.
He smiled as he ascended, smiled as he descended—
The very masons trembled at his hardiness:
But he was working for his father—in his gladness,
His life was full of happiness;
His brave companions loved the boy
Who filled their little life with joy.
They saw the sweat run down his brow,
And clapped their hands, though weary he was now.

What bliss of Abel, when the day's work's o'er,
And the bright stars were shining:
Unto the office he must go,
And don his better clothing—
Thus his poor father to deceive, who thought he went a-clerking.
He took his paper home and wrote, 'midst talk with Jane so shyly,
And with a twinkling eye he answered mother's looks so slyly.

Three days thus passed, and the sick man arose,
Life now appeared to him a sweet repose.
On Thursday, tempting was the road;
At midday, Friday, he must walk abroad.

But, fatal Friday—God has made for sorrow.

The father, warmed up by the sun's bright ray,
Hied to the work-yard, smiling by the way;
He wished to thank the friend who worked for him,
But saw him not—his eyes were dim—
Yet he was near; and looking up, he saw no people working,
No dinner-bell had struck, no workmen sure were lurking.
Oh, God! what's happened at the building yard?
A crowd collected—master, mason—as on guard.
"What's this?" the old man cried. "Alas! some man has fallen!"
Perhaps it was his friend! His soul with grief was burning.
He ran. Before him thronged the press of men,
They tried to thrust him back again;
But no; Hilaire pressed through the crowd of working men.
Oh, wretched father—man unfortunate;
The friend who saved thee was thy child—sad fate!
Now he has fallen from the ladder's head,
And lies a bleeding mass, now nearly dead!

Now Hilaire uttered a most fearful cry;
The child had given his life, now he might die.
Alas! the bleeding youth
Was in his death-throes, he could scarcely breathe;
"Master," he said, "I've not fulfilled my task,
But, in the name of my poor mother dear,
For the day lost, take father on at last."

The father heard, o'erwhelmed he was with fear,
Abel now saw him, felt that he was near,
Inclined his head upon his breast, and praying—
Hand held in hand, he smiled on him while dying.

For Hilary, his place was well preserved,
His wages might perhaps be doubled.

Too late! too late! one saddened morn
The sorrow of his life was gone;
And the good father, with his pallid face,
Went now to take another place
Within the tomb, beside his much loved son.