THE SWALLOWS.
FROM THE FRENCH OF BERANGER.
Captive on Afric’s barren shore,
And bending ’neath the Moorish chain,
A warrior cried—“I see once more
The birds that fly from winter’s reign.
Swallows! which Hope with welcomed glance
Hath followed o’er the burning sea,
Ye left my native sunny France—
What speak ye of that land to me?
Bring me, I pray—an exile sad—
Some token of that valley bright,
Where in my sheltered childhood glad,
The future was a dream of light.
Beside the gentle stream, where swell
Its waves beneath the lilac tree,
Ye saw the cot I love so well—
And speak ye of that home to me?
Perhaps your eyes beheld the day
Beneath the roof that saw my birth;
Have mourned with one to grief a prey—
A mother by her lonely hearth.
Day after day my step she hears,
And looks the well known form to see;
Listens—then weeps more bitter tears—
Oh! speak ye of her love to me?
Is my fair sister yet a bride?
Saw ye the gay and youthful throng
That hailed, close pressing to her side,
The nuptial day with smile and song?
My comrades who for glory burned,
And sought the fight with kindred glee,
To that sweet vale have they returned?
Speak ye of all those friends to me?
Above their buried forms perchance
Strange footsteps tread the valley’s ways;
Hushed is the bridal song and dance—
My home some other lord obeys.
For me ascends no mother’s prayer,
Though here I languish to be free;—
Birds that have breathed my country’s air,
Tell ye my country’s woes to me?”