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Poem	("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! Would I had—oh, my dove of light, After whose flight came ceaseless night, One plume to clasp so purely white.— But no! Far from ye all—oh, dead, bewailed! The fog-bell deafens me empaled Upon this rock—I feel enjailed— Though free. Like one who watches at the gate Lest some shall 'scape the doomèd strait. I watch! the tyrant, howe'er late, Must fall!
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