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[259] The Gascon lord, the village maid,
     In death still clasp their hands;
The love that levels rank and grade
     Unites their severed lands.

What matter whose the hillside grave,
     Or whose the blazoned stone?
Forever to her western wave
     Shall whisper blue Garonne!

O Love!—so hallowing every soil
     That gives thy sweet flower room,
Wherever, nursed by ease or toil,
     The human heart takes bloom!—

Plant of lost Eden, from the sod
     Of sinful earth unriven,
White blossom of the trees of God
     Dropped down to us from heaven –

This tangled waste of mound and stone
     Is holy for thy sake;
A sweetness which is all thy own
     Breathes out from fern and brake.

And while ancestral pride shall twine
     The Gascon's tomb with flowers,
Fall sweetly here, O song of mine,
     With summer's bloom and showers!

And let the lines that severed seem
     Unite again in thee,
As western wave and Gallic stream
     Are mingled in one sea!


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