Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/187

It was a dream of innocence,
And this the thought that made him sob,
He might have stayed here, and from hence
Heard the world's pulses far off throb.
Port-Royal might have been his home:
In its calm vale how sweet to roam
It would have been, amidst its woods
Of chestnuts with their shadows deep,
And muse, and pray, and wake, and sleep,
In its vast parlours' solitudes.

And oh! If with his eyes still wet,
Snatching his slumbering lute again,
He has not unto music set
What then he felt of bitterest pain;
As poet, if he has not sung
The holocaust his tears that wrung;
The Master who by name can call
His sheep, hath less not understood
The minstrel's wise and silent mood;
O mortals, blame him not at all.

The Lord unto whose holy throne
Our prayers ascend, sends He tear-showers
To sparkle on the lids alone,
Like dew upon the opening flowers?
No! Nor His breath to cause unrest,
And agitate the human breast,
Wild music from its chords to draw;
His dews awake to life from death,
Ardent, immense, His circling breath
Labours the frost in us to thaw.