John Watson Dalby

(Merci, Monsieur, merci!)

FORTH from the farmer’s hospitable nook,

Among the trees and where the waters gushed,—

A holy calmness all the welkin hushed,

And lo! before me stood, or rather shook,

A tall gaunt figure iron want had crushed

Into a thing scarce humanlike. He spoke,

Help in his native accents did invoke,

While through his frame a tide of diverse feelings rushed.

“Poor, wretched, and from Paris!” all he said;

Yet, plainly written in his visage pale,

Fancy could still piece out the mournful tale;

And, right or wrong, the history fully read

Of the wan outcast in a Gloucester vale,

In that sad, low, strange tongue, imploring bread.