IN FRENCH FIELDS.
235
SONNET.
All men for pleasant places are not born,
The world for each is open every way:
There are, who in the wild prefer to stay,
Love its free air, and solitudes forlorn;
Like the wild horse, they hold the towns in scorn;
The torrents slake their thirst; the woods display
Fit provender; their roof skies blue or gray;
No yoke or manger for the unicorn!
On some hill-top they ruminate in peace
Their fierce strange thoughts, a melancholy train.
When men inquire about them, God says, Cease!
Oh, harm them not, or woe! From bit and rein
I—I have given their stubborn mouths release,
Of me their exile—rich in fruit or vain!
