IN FRENCH FIELDS.
99
Who smiles there? Is it
A stray spirit
Or woman fair?
Sombre yet soft is the brow!
Bow, nations, bow;
O soul in air,
Speak, what art thou?
In grief the fair face seems—
What mean these sudden gleams!
Our antique pride and dreams
Start up, as beams
The conquering glance;
It makes our sad hearts dance,
And wakes in woods hushed long
The wild bird's song.
Angel of day!
Our Hope, Love, Stay,
Thy countenance
Lights land and sea
Eternally.
Thy name is France
Or Verity.
