Great spirits of the Seine, in clear light flowing on, pliantly mirroring Andelys and Rouen, of the Seine where apples rare their reddening globes may scan and Bouilhet and Flaubert and Corneille and Poussin, welcome without a sneer my country mien. I'm one, like you, not overprone to guzzling ale and beer. Do my friends in Bacchic glee -- La Fontaine and Racine -- drink naught but Castaly and naught but Hippocrene? no, red wine! A drop I toss of water of Jouvence into my cup that froths to honour all of France, and now in fellowship, if spoken it must be, is frothing at my lip to toast your Normandy. One drop of the water of youth and I rise, to shout afar, boldly, the praise, in sooth, of old Chateau Gaillard, of its cliffs, of the forests blue of that fair isle Contant, of the lovely Ile- de-Grace and of Vexin Normand and, indeed, at day's decline of a shower of raindrops fine which, my distant loves, begets a host of sweet regrets. Great sprites with names divine, permit then that Jouvence -- sole potable fount of France -- be wedded to my wine. This stirs the heart, it is a philtre, truth to tell. You recognise it well, doers of prodigies! A drop at least, forsooth, add to your cider's brew: that your work may keep its youth and grow in merit, too. Quaff cider and champagne 'mid the green rushes fair of the brook-side, O Corneille, O Bouilhet, O Flaubert. gold-wreathed! though Nicholas portrays us at our ease before a Roman arch, beneath French apple-trees. |