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(Excerpt)
RIVER of the golden sands, | |
| River of the sunny lands, | |
| How blithe thy rolling waves advance, | |
| The life-streams of thy glorious France! | |
| The pilgrim, wandering near thy tide, | 5 |
| Forgets his toil those banks beside, | |
| While checkered fancies, proud and vast, | |
| Fling o’er his soul the mighty Past. | |
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| Not thine the lot, in silent vale, | |
| Unseen, to kiss the osiers pale,— | 10 |
| Through pool or waste or fen to pass | |
| By stagnant lake or lone morass. | |
| Springs forth thy source in earliest birth, | |
| To deck with gifts the grateful earth; | |
| Bears onward still the richest stores, | 15 |
| And casts broad harvests on thy shores. | |
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| Yet is thy temper, sooth to tell, | |
| Like thine own land thou lov’st so well, | |
| And change comes o’er thy beaming smile, | |
| Inconstant as a maiden’s wile; | 20 |
| While all seems tranquil on thy face, | |
| Sweeps o’er the plain thy sudden race, | |
| And wide thy boiling surges roll, | |
| O’er homestead lone and fenceless knoll. | |
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| The poplar, thy true vassal, sees, | 25 |
| The angry torrent’s frenzied hour, | |
| And, bending low before the breeze, | |
| Does homage to unquestioned power. | |
| No change of dynasties is here,— | |
| Loire’s gleaming sword is always near; | 30 |
| Crowns may be lost, and states o’erthrown, | |
| Yet Loire forever holds her own. | |
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| Far on the dim horizon’s line | |
| Thy golden spires, fair Orleans, shine; | |
| With glories laden, as with years, | 35 |
| Thy giant minster’s form appears; | |
| While still by Loiret’s filial stream | |
| St. Mesmin’s humbler lilies gleam. | |
| And pious Clovis smiles above | |
| O’er broad lands given for churches’ love. | 40 |
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| Pass onwards, towards still distant Blois; | |
| Dream of Beaugency and Dunois; | |
| Breathe not too long St. Cléry’s air, | |
| Nor seek the grave of “Maitre Pierre.” | |
| Let Ménars, with its bowers, beguile; | 45 |
| Let Pompadour’s ambitious smile, | |
| Which royal love paid dear to buy, | |
| Dwell on the pilgrim’s memory. | |
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| Pause not where frowns yon darkling pile, | |
| As though it shunned the sunbeam’s smile, | 50 |
| Deserted Blois! thy vanes of yore | |
| Aloft the royal lilies bore; | |
| Yet lurked thy gloomy towers beneath | |
| Treason and murder, blood and death, | |
| When Henry steeped his soul in crime, | 55 |
| And Catharine sought to master Time. | |
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| The bright stars shine upon thy shore, | |
| River, as they were wont before; | |
| Still flow thy waves in eddies deep, | |
| Where noble Guise was doomed to sleep. | 60 |
| The dark astrologer, unshriven, | |
| With Catharine, waits the doom of heaven; | |
| Victims and kings alike are past | |
| To their dread trial at the last. | |
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| Come, let us wander far away, | 65 |
| While shadows robe declining day: | |
| O’er wooded plains and forests deep, | |
| Where royal Chambord’s turrets sleep, | |
| The sculptured lily fresh and fair, | |
| Symbol of sovereign power, is there,— | 70 |
| No longer prostrate on the earth, | |
| But blooming in a second birth. | |
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| Say, mighty river, is the sword | |
| Forever sheathed for Chambord’s lord? | |
| France’s pure lily seems a sham, | 75 |
| Unsheltered by the oriflambe. | |
| Silence and solitude reign there, | |
| And point to Henri’s vacant chair; | |
| Sad is the lot, and deep the trance, | |
| Of those who love the son of France. | 80 |
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| Through tufted heights and woodlands green | |
| Fair Chaumont’s donjon lowers between. | |
| Time was when warriors kept this prize, | |
| Time was ’t was given for woman’s eyes; | |
| Time is, and those embattled towers | 85 |
| By woman’s hand are crowned with flowers; | |
| Through moss-grown walls the woodbines creep, | |
| And roses kiss the hoary keep. | |
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| Now seek thee good St. Hubert’s cell, | |
| Where Amboise boasts her citadel; | 90 |
| Fortress and prison, pride and shame, | |
| That makes, yet mars, a nation’s fame; | |
| Of old, dark records tell of cost | |
| Of life, and lands and freedom lost; | |
| And now, the Arab chieftain’s fate, | 95 |
| And France’s honor, saved too late! | |
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| Joy to thee, noble river, joy! | |
| No slothful brooks thy course alloy; | |
| Swiftly by curtained Azy’s keep, | |
| Indre pours forth her currents deep, | 100 |
| Sweeps on her course the winding Vienne, | |
| Where Domrémy sought regal ken, | |
| And Chinon’s leafy honors wave | |
| O’er brave De Molay’s knightly grave. | |
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| Sweet are thy amorous precincts, Cher! | 105 |
| Spangled with flowers thy meadows are; | |
| Fair as of old thy tangled woods | |
| And clear and deep thy gushing floods. | |
| Yon stately pile is fresh and gay, | |
| As time had cast his scythe away: | 110 |
| Since unchaste Dian drew her bow, | |
| With hound and horn at Chenonceaux. * * * * * | |
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