Alfred de Rosann by G.W.M. Reynolds — page 101: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

80 Alfred de Rosann. In France still your heart is, and e’er will remain ;— For a fairer than France may you search, but in vain: *Tis the land of the great, and the dauntless, and free— The nation of love and of pleasure for me! If you seek for a maiden with loveliness beaming, Our Gallia has beauties the fairest that be; The moon in yon sky so tranquilly gleaming, Appears not more chaste than our virgins to me. Their bosoms are warm, but as fair as the snow— They've a smile for your bliss, and a tear for your woe;— And this is the land of the courteous and free, The nation of beauty and pleasure to me! They love not their gallants to languish all idly In their gilded saloons, from the battle afar ; But they send forth their warriors to spread their fame widely, And seek for renown in the mazes of war. O this is the land of the bravest of old ! Where maids are most lovely, and warriors most bold, Where chiefs are undaunted, and fearless, and free— *Tis the land of all bliss and all pleasure to me! "Tis sweet to recline on the breast softly heaving, And beating with transports, of her you adore; "Tis hard to depart when you know you are leaving A being you haply may never see more! But warriors must wander to aid the opprest, Must leave for a time the pleasures of rest, And fight for the land of the courteous and free— The land that is dearest to Fame and to me! The chiefs of the South, in idlesse reclining, Make Italy echo with pleasure and mirth ;— While the eyes of their maidens in raptures are shining, They dream not of spreading their fame o’er the earth! But never may Frenchman an infidel prove To the land of his birth, or the maid of his love :— He may revel in pleasure, and still can be free To fight for the clime which is dearest to me! It requires but one word in praise of France and the achievements of her thousand heroes—and only a syllable which at all alludes to the name of Napoleon and the reminiscences of his extraordinary deeds, to set a Frenchman’s soul on fire. De Rosann was in raptures: he forgot the dangers from which he had ere now escaped—the massacre of Edouard, the execution of Francois, and the difficulties attending his present predicament—a Jong journey before him, and gendarmes behind—he recollected not his absent but affectionate Eloise—he cared not for the world without—all, all were as indifferent to him at the present moment as the riches of the earth to the cynic Diogenes. His soul was wrapt in a joyous ecstasy—his imagination pictured glorious visions, in which the apotheosis of the departed heroes of his country was predominant—and the magic influence of the song chased away from his memory the certainties of the present moment, to make way for ECONlNCOOOlKS.CO