Poems (Ford)/To Ma Mere's Jonquille
TO MA MÈRE'S JONQUILLE.[1]
Pale child of the spring-time, thy golden stars gleam
Away in a far, sunny land,
And, warmed by the breath of that sweet southern clime,
In fragrance and beauty expand;
Then what dost thou here, where the cold northern blast
On fierce, icy pinions sweeps by?
Why brave the wild air of our chill wintry clime,
Fair child of a sunnier sky?
Away in a far, sunny land,
And, warmed by the breath of that sweet southern clime,
In fragrance and beauty expand;
Then what dost thou here, where the cold northern blast
On fierce, icy pinions sweeps by?
Why brave the wild air of our chill wintry clime,
Fair child of a sunnier sky?
Oh, sweet little blossom, out here in the storm,
'T is love makes the starry eyes shine;
To gladden the heart of a friend, thou didst leave
The land of the olive and vine;
Nursed there by her care, thou hast followed her here,
To bloom 'neath her fostering hand;
Inhaling thy fragrance, she'll fancy she breathes
The air of her loved native land.
'T is love makes the starry eyes shine;
To gladden the heart of a friend, thou didst leave
The land of the olive and vine;
Nursed there by her care, thou hast followed her here,
To bloom 'neath her fostering hand;
Inhaling thy fragrance, she'll fancy she breathes
The air of her loved native land.
The vine-mantled hill-sides of beautiful France
May never again meet her view;
But here, little flower, in the wilds of the West,
She'll see them reflected in you.
And often perchance, as she looks on your leaves,
Her heart shall revisit again
The home of her childhood, the friends of her youth,
The land of the sword and the pen.
May never again meet her view;
But here, little flower, in the wilds of the West,
She'll see them reflected in you.
And often perchance, as she looks on your leaves,
Her heart shall revisit again
The home of her childhood, the friends of her youth,
The land of the sword and the pen.
Then offer thy incense with glad, grateful heart,
Thy guardian's kind care to repay;
And here, in the shade of the cloister, recall
Her dear convent-home far away.
Long, long may'st thou bloom ere the angels shall bear
Her off to the bright world on high,
To walk with the blest in the gardens of God
Where blossoms ne'er wither or die.
Thy guardian's kind care to repay;
And here, in the shade of the cloister, recall
Her dear convent-home far away.
Long, long may'st thou bloom ere the angels shall bear
Her off to the bright world on high,
To walk with the blest in the gardens of God
Where blossoms ne'er wither or die.
- ↑ A little flower sent to Sister Stanislaus, of Saint Martin's, from her convent in France.