To Antinoe in Paris, 1802

I value not the proud and stern
Who ruled of old o'er bleak Auvergne,
Whose images you fear'd to pass
Recumbent under arching brass,

Nor thought how fondly they had smiled
Could they have seen their future child.
And yet, Antinoe, I would pray
Saint after saint to see the day
When undejected you once more
Might pass along that chappel-floor;
When, standing at its altar crown'd
With wild flowers from the ruin round,
Your village priest might hear and bless
A love that never shall be less.