Guileless of pondering; Swallow-eyes wandering; Seeking no fonder ring Than the rose-garland Love gives thee apart! Grant me soon-- Blessed boon! Home in thy heart! JERSEY. _("Jersey dort dans les flots.")_ [Bk. III. xiv., Oct. 8, 1854.] Dear Jersey! jewel jubilant and green, 'Midst surge that splits steel ships, but sings to thee! Thou fav'rest Frenchmen, though from England seen, Oft tearful to that mistress "North Countree"; Returned the third time safely here to be, I bless my bold Gibraltar of the Free. Yon lighthouse stands forth like a fervent friend, One who our tempest buffets back with zest, And with twin-steeple, eke our helmsman's end, Forms arms that beckon us upon thy breast; Rose-posied pillow, crystallized with spray, Where pools pellucid mirror sunny ray. A frigate fretting yonder smoothest sky, Like pauseless petrel poising o'er a wreck, Strikes bright athwart the dearly dazzled eye, Until it lessens to scarce certain speck, 'Neath Venus, sparkling on the agate-sprinkled beach, For fisher's sailing-signal, just and true, Until Aurora frights her from the view. In summer, steamer-smoke spreads as thy veil, And mists in winter sudden screen thy sight, When at thy feet the galley-breakers wail And toss their tops high o'er the lofty flight Of horrid storm-worn steps with shark-like bite, That only ope to swallow up in spite. L'ENVOY. But penitent in calm, thou givest a balm, To many a man who's felt thy rage, And many a sea-bird--thanks be heard!-- Thou shieldest--sea-bird--exiled bard and sage. THEN, MOST, I SMILE. _("Il est un peu tard.")_ [Bk. III. xxx., Oct. 30, 1854.] Late it is to look so proud, Daisy queen! come is the gloom Of the winter-burdened cloud!-- "But, in winter, most I bloom!" Star of even! sunk the sun! Lost for e'er the ruddy line; And the earth is veiled in dun,-- "Nay, in darkness, best I shine!" O, my soul! art 'bove alarm, Quaffing thus the cup of gall-- Canst thou face the grave with calm?-- "Yes, the Christians smile at all." THE EXILE'S DESIRE. _("Si je pouvais voir, O patrie!")_ [Bk. III. xxxvii.] Would I could see you, native land, Where lilacs and the almond stand Behind fields flowering to the strand-- But no! Can I--oh, father, mother, crave Another final blessing save To rest my head upon your grave?-- But no! In the one pit where ye repose, Would I could tell of France's woes, My brethren, who fell facing foes-- But no!