Part 22 (1/2)

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,[23]

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, His crests amidst the breezes play: And birds of ev'ry note and hue Come trooping to his shade in Spring, Each Summer they their lays renew, And while the year endures they sing.

And thus it is, believe me, sir, With this enchantress--she we call Our second mother; Frenchmen err, Who, cent'ries since, proclaim'd 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.

[Footnote 22: Jasmin here quotes several _patois_ songs, well known in the country.]

[Footnote 23: Both Gascons.]

THE SHEPHERD AND THE GASCON POET.

To the Bordelais, on the grand Fete given me at the Casino.

IN a far land, I know not where, Ere viol's sigh, or organ's swell, Had made the sons of song aware That music is a potent spell, A shepherd to a city came, Play'd on his pipe, and rose to fame.

He sang of fields, and at each close Applause from ready hands arose.

The simple swain was hail'd and crown'd In mansions where the great reside, And cheering smiles and praise he found, And in his heart rose honest pride: All seem'd with joy and rapture gleaming,-- He trembled that he was but dreaming.

But, modest still, his soul was moved; Yet of his hamlet was his thought,-- Of friends at home, and her he loved,-- When back his laurel-branch be brought: And, pleasure beaming in his eyes, Enjoy'd their welcome and surprise.

'Twas thus with me, when Bordeaux deign'd To listen to my rustic song; Whose music praise and honour gain'd More than to rural strains belong.

Delighted, charm'd, I scarcely knew Whence sprung this life so fresh and new.

And to my heart I whisper'd low, When to my fields return'd again, ”Is not the Gascon Poet now As happy as the shepherd swain?”

The minstrel never can forget The spot where first success he met; But he, the shepherd who, of yore, Had charm'd so many a list'ning ear, Came back, and was beloved no more;-- He found all changed and cold and drear!