r,
I look upon the fields of Agen, the valley of Verone.{3}
How happy am I 'mongst my vines! Such pleasures there are none.

For here I am the poet-dresser, working for the wines.
I only think of propping up my arbours and my vines;
Upon the road I pick the little stones--
And take them to my vineyard to set them up in cones,
And thus I make a little house with but a sheltered door--
As each friend, in his turn, now helps to make the store.
And then there comes the vintage--the ground is firm and fast,
With all my friends, with wallets or with baskets cast,
We then proceed to gather up the fertile grapes at last.

Oh! my young vine,
The sun's bright shine
Hath ripened thee
All--all for me!
No drizzling showers
Have spoilt the hours.
My muse can't borrow;
My friends, to-morrow
Cannot me lend;
But thee, young friend,
Grapes nicely drest,
With figs the finest
And raisins gather
Bind them together!
Th' abundant season
Will still us bring
A glorious harvesting;
Close up thy hands with bravery
Upon the luscious grapery!

Now all push forth their tendrils; though not past remedy,
At th' hour when I am here, my faithful memory
Comes crowding back; my oldest friends
Now make me young again--for pleasure binds
Me to their hearts and minds.
But now the curtained night comes on again.

I see, the meadows sweet around,
My little island, midst the varying ground,
Where I have often laughed, and sometimes I have groaned.

I see far off the leafy woodland,
Or near the fountain, where I've; often dreamed;
Long time ago there was a famous man{4}
Who gave its fame to Agen.
I who but write these verses slight
Midst thoughts of memory bright.

But I will tell you all--in front, to left, to right,
More than a hedgerow thick that I have brought the light,
More than an apple-tree that I have trimmed,
More than an old vine-stalk that I have thinned
To ripen lovely Muscat.
Madame, you see that I look back upon my past,
Without a blush at last;
What would you? That I gave my vineyard back--
And that with usury? Alack!
And yet unto my garden I've no door--
Two thorns are all my fence--no more!
When the marauders come, and through a hole I