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.
the shepherd and the gascon poet.
To the Bordelais, on the grand Fête 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.