Today, alone of all my scattered race, I see again the beauty of our land, Made fair and fruitful by a banished hand; Endeared of tongue never to know this place. Meadows and dykes, and hearths now cold I trace; And tyrant tides never to brook command. Where undisturbed the rustling willows stand, And the curved grass, telling the breeze's pace.   Before the march of power the weak must bend, And yet forgive. The savage strong will smite. The glossing words of reason and of song, To tell of hate and virtue to defend, Shall never set the bitter deed aright, Nor satisfy the ages with the wrong.                                                                                                                                                                   JOHN FREDERICK HERBIN   RETURN TO BEAUBASSIN   Woe fell upon you, ye genial race - -Ye exile sons of lily France ! This is no more your dwelling place, - - Ye live in music and romance; But oft as purple eventide, Bathes all these hills in fire and dew, Some wanderer by the riverside Shall drop a tear and dream of you.   The vale still rings with childhood's song Amid its yellowing sea of flowers, While days of summer glide along On wings of light through all your bowers; Here are the trees you planted - - here, The remnants of your broken homes; But to old graves, from year to year, No ghostly mourner ever comes. ARTHUR JOHN LOCKHART http://pages.prodigy.net/gydvo/index.htm