THE VOULZIE.
Is there a river with more charms for a poet
Than the Voulzie? I defy thee to show it.
Is the Voulzie a stream with great islands? No,
Its charm lies in its murmur—low, very low.
The smallest of brooks, it knows hardly to flow.
A giant athirst at a breath might drink all
The Voulzie entire, from its source to its fall,
The dwarf Oberon, who disports with its shells,
Across it might leap without wetting his bells;
But the Voulzie I love, and dearly I love,
As pent in its flowers, with its dark woods above,
With blackberries teeming, it hums monotone,
For there on its banks I have wandered alone
As a child. I' the shade of its forests profound
I have given a language oft, oft to its sound;
A schoolboy, poor, dreaming, whom men might call wild,
But happy, so happy, and so undefiled.
When my bread to the birds in pieces I threw,
And pleased in wild circles around me they flew,
The wave murmured, 'Hope, in days evil again,
God this bread shall give back'—the promise was vain.
Mine Egeria it was,—my loved oracle,
At all my sorrows it said, 'Hope, child, 'tis well.
Hope, hope thou and sing, and know never a fear,
Thy mother and Camille shall ever be near.'
