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IN FRENCH FIELDS.
41
Why, why can I not, borne on the car of the morn,
Vague object I long for, dart upwards to thee?
Why linger I still in a forced exile I scorn?
No bond of affection 'twixt the world is, and me.
The reign of green foliage in the wood is but brief,
Falls the leaf, and is whirled by the wind in its play,
Alas! I resemble but too much the poor leaf;
Stormy wind of the north, bear, oh, bear me away!
