IN FRENCH FIELDS.
151
THE TEARS OF RACINE.
When Jean Racine the poet grand,
Loving and true, a child of light,
Had veiled his lyre, grown mute, to stand
For ever out of human sight,
Though earth he had renounced and fame,
He felt at times song's sacred flame
Within his heart burn bright and clear,
And then before the Saviour's feet,
He burst in prayers confused and sweet,
Prayers always sealed with many a tear.
Just as the pure heart of a maid
In secret often overflows,
At each domestic cloud or shade,
At each small joy his tears arose.
To see his eldest daughter weep,
To see fair children round him leap,
And deck his rooms with flowers and leaves,
To feel a father's tender cares
'Mid chat of books or state affairs
With Rollin, in the winter eves.
