_Heureux qui comme Ulysse a fait un beau voyage Ou comme cestuy-là qui conquit la Toison Et puis est retourné plein d'usage et raison Vivre entre ses parents le reste de son âge._ _Quand revoiray-je hélas! de mon petit village Fumer la cheminée, et en quelle saison Revoiray-je le clos de ma pauvre maison Qui m'est une province, et beaucoup davantage._ _Plus me plaist le sejour qu'out basty mes ayeux Que des palais romains le front audacieux Plus que le marbre dur me plaist l'ardoise fine._ _Plus mon Loyre gaulois que le Tybre latin Plus mon petit Liré que le mont Palatin Et plus que l'air marin la douceur Angevine._ Happy the man who like Ulysses has traveled far and wide, Or like that other who won the Golden Fleece, And then wended home full worn and full wise, To spend among his own folk the remainder of his days. When shall I see once more alack! above my little hamlet Rise the chimney smoke, and in what season of the year Shall I see once more the garden of my humble home, Which is a wide province in my eyes, and even more. Dearer to my heart is the home my forefathers built Than the cloud-capped tops of haughty Roman palaces. Dearer than hardest marble the fine slate of my roof. Dearer my Gaulish Loire than Tiber's Latin stream. Dearer my little hill of Liré than Mount Palatinus, And than sea-airs the sweet air of Anjou. Till yesterday that voice still spoke for the unchanging life of France. The peasant remained where his forefathers had broken the fields and loaded the wains. Why should he be seeking strange lands, like the troubled races? He found his place of peace long ago. To what country can he travel where the sun is pleasanter on happy fields? What people can he visit who have the dignity and simplicity of his neighbors?