IN FRENCH FIELDS.
319
MY VILLAGE.
O fair sky of my native land,
How much I miss thee here!
And thee, O home—O sweet retreat!
I ever held so dear.
Canst thou not, Sun, that openest now
The summer's treasures free,
Give back to me my sky and home,
My life and gaiety?
Too common is the error sad
My reason that betrayed,
I dreamt of fortune and a name,
And from my country strayed;
By sad experience wiser grown,
With softer heart to-day,
My own dear village now I seek,
And my first friend, far away.
What calls me to that happy spot?
Why should I thither fare?
My mother slumbers there in peace,
And friendship waits me there.
O pleasant thoughts! like mighty charms,
My sadness lull to rest,
Dry up the tears that rise unbid,
And calm my heaving breast.
