Wanderings by the Loire . this agree-able poet and amiable man composed a series ofsonnets, recalling the charms and delights of his unfor-gotten Loire. The reader may not be displeased to seeone of them. Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage!Ou comme celui-la qui conquit la toison,Et puis est retourne, plein dusage et raison, Vivre entre ses parents le reste de son age! Quand reverrai-je, helas ! de mon petit villageFumer la cheminee, et eu quelle saisonReverrai-je le clos de ma pauvre maison, Qui mest une province, et beaucoup davantage ? Plus me plait le sejour quun batit mes aie
Wanderings by the Loire . this agree-able poet and amiable man composed a series ofsonnets, recalling the charms and delights of his unfor-gotten Loire. The reader may not be displeased to seeone of them. Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage!Ou comme celui-la qui conquit la toison,Et puis est retourne, plein dusage et raison, Vivre entre ses parents le reste de son age! Quand reverrai-je, helas ! de mon petit villageFumer la cheminee, et eu quelle saisonReverrai-je le clos de ma pauvre maison, Qui mest une province, et beaucoup davantage ? Plus me plait le sejour quun batit mes aieux,Que des palais Romains le front audacieux;Plus que le marbre dur me plait lardoise fine ;Plus mon Loire Gaulois que le Tibre Latin,Plus mon petit Lire que le Mont-Palatin,Et plus que iair marin la douceur Angevine. Soon after leaving Ancenis, we glide insensiblyinto a new world. Every thing here is heavy, mas-sive, and colossal; the broad river, blackened with thehuge shadow of its banks, rolls sternly and majestically. THE PIRATE OF THE LOIRE. 157 between; a meaning silence seems to brood in the air ;and the excited wanderer feels as if entering into someregion of old enchantment. But not the wanderer alone, who, like ourselves,floats nameless and unnoticed down the stream, orsteals along those hoary ramparts of nature, listeningto the mysterious music of the wind, as it mingles withthe far and sullen plunge of the waters,—calling up,as with a name and a spell, the unwilling phantomsof history, and the spectral shadows of romance—andmusing over forgotten graves and nameless ruins, tillthe present, with its outward and visible forms, vanishesfrom his eyes, and buried ages rise again from thegulf of time, and the antique world is renewed, bothto soul and sense, not as a vision, but a he alone who, with a weak and ineffectual voice,repeats the echoes of the Loire, syllabling his thoughtinto faint sounds that rise upon the inattentive earof the world, like the r
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