Through every street the merry footsteps bound,
Altar and church are clad in bright array,
And gates of branches green arise around,
Over the columns twine the garlands gay;
Rheims cannot hold the ever-swelling train
That seeks the nation-festival to gain.

All with one joyous feeling are elate,
One single thought is thrilling every breast;
What, until now, was severed by fierce hate,
Is by the general rapture truly blessed.
By each who called this land his parent-state,
The name of Frenchman proudly is confessed;
The glory is revived of olden days,
And to her regal son France homage pays.

Yet I who have achieved this work of pride,
I cannot share the rapture felt by all:
My heart is changed, my heart is turned aside,
It shuns the splendor of this festival;
'Tis in the British camp it seeks to hide,--
'Tis on the foe my yearning glances fall;
And from the joyous circle I must steal,
My bosom's crime o'erpowering to conceal.

Who? I? What! in my bosom chaste
Can mortal's image have a seat?
This heart, by heavenly glory graced,--
Dares it with earthly love to beat?
The saviour of my country, I,--