1/70 CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 924 086 857 590 The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924086857590 CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY ^^ -cr>" ^ C -^j^.^ LOVE SONGS OF FRANCE LOVE SONGS OF FRANCE FROM THE ORIGINALS OF DE MUSSET, GAUTIER, HUGO, GIRARDIN BAUDELAIRE, DE BERANGER, CHENIER LAMARTINE, DE LA VIGNE, DUFRESNY DEGUERLE, LAUCUSSADE, SAINTE-BEUVE DUPONT, NADAUD, PARNY, AND SEGUR NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK COMPANY a» .^ 156 FIFTH AVENUE J- NEW YORK .^ MDCCCXCVI Press of J. J. Little & Co. Astor Place, New York CONTENTS. ANON. VI. Colinette PACE 12 CHARLES BAUDELAIRE. VIII. Wine .... XIV. Hymn to Beauty XXI. Like a Serpent Dancing XXXVI. All in All . XLV. The Water-Jet . LI I. An Afternoon Song LIV. Cain and Abel . LV. A Sad Madrigal . LVI. Death 16 36 50 9' 119 140 •45 '47 148 P. J. DE BERANGER. LXIII. Springtime and Autumn . . . 157 LXIV. How Fair She Is 159 LXV. The Old Flag 160 LXVIl. The Gray-Hair'd Dame ... 162 LXVIII. Old Age 164 ANDRE CHENIER. II. Mnazilus and Chloe 2 XLIV. An Idyll 114 LIII. Camille 142 vi CONTENTS. DEGUERLE. PAGE XXX. The Art of Pleasing 72 DE LA VIGNE. XXII. The Tryst 52 XXXVIIl. The Oaths 93 DUFRESNY. X. The Morrows 25 PIERRE DUPONT. IX. The Weeping Willow 23 XXVII. A Village Maiden's Song . 66 XXXIII. Barcarole . . 87 XL. Under the Lindens . . . 96 XLVI. A Serenade .... 121 THEOPHILE GAUTIER. LVII. To Jessy 151 LVllI. Solitude ,52 LIX. Sultan Mahmoud 155 LX. Serenade 155 LXI. To the Butterflies 156 LXII. The Spectre of the Rose . . . .156 EMILE DE GIRARDIN. XVIll. For Ever 44 XLI. Of Whom is He Thinking? ... 97 CONTENTS. VICTOR HUGO. III. My Little Neighbor . IV. Truth .... XVII. Sunset XXVI. New Song to an Old Air XXXII. In the Church of * * » XXXVII. To a Lady XLVlll. All— All is Love XLIX. A Morning Serenade . 4 5 43 65 76 92 122 124 ALPHONSE DE LAMAS TINE. I. Almond Blossoms .... XV. The Gulf of Baya .... XXIII. A Love Song . . . . XXIX. Wisdom XXXIV. The Butterfly XLll. To Elvira 38 53 69 88 99 LA UCUSSADE. LI. The Roses of Forgetfulness .38 ALFRED DE MUSSET. Vll. To a Flower .... '4 XIII. To Fanny 34 XIX. Venice .... . 46 XXVlll. Farewell ..... 68 XXXV. My Spanish Girl . 89 XXXIX. The Marquesa d'Amaegui . 94 L. An Autumn Eve • '25 viii CONTENTS. GUSTAVE NADAUD. FAGB V. Glycera's Complaint " XI. Dreams of Youth 26 XX. The Song of Thirty Years .... 49 XXV. Sleeplessness 63 XXXI. Ursula 74 PARNY. XII. The Pictures 28 XXIV. On the Death of a Young Girl ... 62 XLIII. Elegies 101 SAINTE-BEUVE. LXIX. Roundelay 165 LXX. " Oh, Take Away " 166 LXXl. First Love 167 SEGUR. XVI. Remember Me 42 LXXll. L'Envoi to Fanny 170 LOVE SONGS OF FRANCE. ALMOND BLOSSOMS. (lamartine. ) The almond blossoms on this tree As emblems of thy charms were made ; The flowers of life, my sweet, like thee ; Yet ere the summer's gone they fade. E'en let us pluck them as we will In Love's soft hands they die away. And, leaf by leaf, they perish still. Like our short pleasures, day by day. So let us take them in their prime, Dispute them from the zephyr's breath. Enjoy the fragrance while we've time Of perfume soon to fade in death ; I MNAZILUS AND CHLOE. For beauty often, as it flies. Is like some rosy morning flower. Which withers in the wreath, and dies A while before the festal hour. Each day rnust die when once 'tis born. Each spring-time blushing fresh and coy. Yet each flower on the lap of morn But bids us hasten to enjoy. And so, since all we love and cherish Must fade when most we feel its bliss. Let, let the glowing roses perish. But only 'neath Love's lingering kiss. IL MNAZILUS AND CHLOE. (andre chenier.) CHLOE. O FLOWER-STREWN borders I O tall reeds blowing In rhythmic tune to the water flowing ! Oh tell me, is Mnazilus near your glades? Often he comes to your peaceful shades. And often I wish the trembling air Would bring me a message that he is there. MNAZILUS AND CHLOE. MNAZILUS. O stream ! the mother of flowers, you hold This scented dell in your girdling fold ; Why do you not bring to your winding thrall Chloe, the daintiest flower of all ? CHLOE. If he but knew that I came to dream Of love, and of him beside the stream ! Oh if a glance or a tender smile Could make him tarry a little while — MNAZILUS. Oh if some kind god would breathe a word Of the thoughts with which my heart is stirr'd. Then dare I pray her, when she was near me, To let me love her, at least to hear me ! CHLOE. O joy, 'tis he ! — ^he speaks — I tremble — Be quiet, O lips I O eyes, dissemble ! MNAZILUS. The foliage rustled — methought I heard — 'Tis she ! O eyes, say never a word ! CHLOE. What, Mnazilus here? how strange to meet With you in this lonely green retreat ! . 3 MY LITTLE NEIGHBOR. MNAZILUS. Alone I lay in the shady grass And never expected a soul to pass. III. MY LITTLE NEIGHBOR. (victor HUGO.) If you nothing have to say. Why so often come this way ? Rosy mouth and blue eyes smiling, Stronger heads than mine beguiling From their study and their labor ; Tell me, charming little neighbor. If you nothing have to say. Why so often come this way ? If you nothing have to teach. Why not practise as you preach ? Little hands so softly pressing. Teasing half, and half caressing, Saucy mouth, and sparkling eye, Needs must have a reason why ; If you nothing have to teach Why not practise as you preach ! 4 TRUTH. If you say I have not won you, Why not, sweet one, let me shun you? Now my books aside are thrown, You I read, and you alone ; If you ever are denying, Why then hinder me from flying? If you say I have not won you, Why not, sweet one, let me shun you ? IV. TRUTH. (v. HUGO. ) The merry mom is waking In all its rosy light, While fogs and dreams are taking Flight, with the drowsy night ; Soft eyelashes and roses Open with hope new-born. And everything discloses The happy touch of morn. And everything is singing A morning hymn to love. Flowers and tendrils springing To greet the trees above ; 5 TRUTH. The streams speak to the fountains. The breezes to the pines. The clouds unto the mountains. The grapes unto the vines. One throbbing pulse is shaking All Nature's mighty frame, — IThe child its toys retaking. The ember'd grate its flame ; Love, and folly, and madness. Petty aims, and grand. And fame, and hope, and gladness — To each one what he plann'd. Still, whether loving or sighing, In the bridal garb or pall. We're only drifting, flying To the final goal of all ; We all seek what is ours, — A lad the joys of youth, A bee the daintiest flowers. Whilst I am seeking truth ! O Truth 1 with deep devotion I've plunged in depths profound, And sought thee in the ocean Where'er the plummets sound ; 6 TRUTH. Tho' fogs and mists may bind thee, And shoals and sand-banks mock, We're sure at last to find thee. As firm, as hard as rock ! O Truth I broad-breasted river Which never can be dry. Where all may bathe for ever. And swim, or sink and die ; A lamp the great God places Near all our mortal things, A light that always graces The thoughts a pure mind brings ! A gnarled tree in flower. Where strength and beauty blend, Which each man, to his power, Shall either break or bend ; 'Mid wide-spread branches flinging Their shade, when day has sunk. Some to the branches clinging. And others to the trunk. A hill from which all floweth, A path which all have trod, A gulf to which all goeth — The handiwork of God ! TRUTH. A star we're still blaspheming, Altho', on nearer view, After wild doubts and dreaming. We'll know its ray was true. O Earth I lit up with splendor At sunset and sunrise, With gorgeous hues yet tender To suit our mortal eyes I Shores where waves are dying ! Woods where soft winds play ! O vast horizon I lying Round all things far away, glorious azure veiling The gulf, till all is still ; Where idly floating, sailing Where'er the breezes will, 1 'mid the reeds conceal me. And list with all my soul To what the waves reveal me In their majestic roll ! O glorious azure smiling On all, from skies above. Each wearied soul beguiling To dreams and thoughts of love ; 8 TRUTH. And, while we're dreaming, seeking To read the mystic spell. That murmuring winds are speaking. That starry pages tell. O mighty ocean wreathing, And girdling all the earth I Stars which the Master's breathing Call'd to their fiery birth I Flowers whose hidden meaning We crush beneath our feet, Tho' God, perchance, is gleaning Honey from every sweet 1 O valleys rich in May-time 1 O woodland shades and plains I Where village towers in play-time Ring out their merry strains ; Hillocks and mountains bearing The vast skies on your breasts ! Bright stars a gay smile wearing Amid your gloomy nests ! — You are but one book's pages Where all may read and learn : Where poets and where sages May see what most they yearn : Yet every thought unfurl'd there Requires a mystic rod, 9 TRUTH. Tho' some eyes see a world there. And some souls find a God. A Book which is completed By virtuous deeds alone ; Where youthful dreams are greeted By feelings still unknown ; Where those whom age has smitten With wrinkled brows yet vast, Have in the margin written "Behold us come at last ! " A holy book concealing All deeds which God has done ; A thousand names revealing And yet revealing one — A name that always leavens Whate'er we hold of worth. But one name in the heavens. But one name on the earth. A sure book, never failing. For all may drink its balm, Tho' midnight seers are paling Before they find its charm ; Pythagoras nearly guess'd it, And Moses knew it well. And all have loved and bless'd it, When once they learn'd the spell. lO GLYCERA'S COMPLAINT. V. GLYCERA'S COMPLAINT. (nadaud. ) Once Horace, buried deep in thought. Was dreaming all a poet's fancies. While poor Glycera vainly sought To lure hina with her softest glances ; Reading his face with eager eyes. Long time unto his knees she clung, Then, stifling her unbidden sighs, She seized upon her lyre, and sung — "What was it, Horace, made you choose me To be the theme of glowing pages. Till in the song itself you lose me. And leave me there for coming ages ? "Ah ! how can I but help to know it? When all your inmost thoughts discover. It was not Love who made you poet, But 'twas the Muse who made you lover. "For 'tis but she who can inspire The songs in which you love me best, When my name trembles on your lyre, Then hers is thrilling in your breast COLINETTE. " And, Horace, if I bade you throw The songs you make me far away. And take my love instead, I know How scornfully you'd answer 'Nay.' '■■ Poet ! you reckon fame above These short-lived ties, these friendships sweet, Unmindful that with passionate love I'm wasting, dying at your feet." And Horace, sleeping half, half waking. All heedless of the mournful strain. Was idle songs to Lydia making. While poor Glycera wept in vain. VI. COLINETTE. (anon.) The sweet scents the violets fling Tell me of the belle and pride Of the happy country side Where I pass'd my boyhood's spring : I, a schoolboy when we met. She, a little country maid ; Now beneath the grass she's laid — Poor Colinette ? 12 ^orQ-aiTAVvnc *cotaf< cony. COLINETTE. Playing hide-seek, where the trees Spread their green athwart the skjr, She was breathless quite, and I Joyous as a summer's breeze. Ne'er a time to fume and fret, Now, alas I each turtle dove Murmurs 'mid its tale of love " Poor Colinette ! " On this bank, in this sweet spot, Was our parting interviews, Closer still our lips we drew. Loving, tho' we knew it not; Hiding still my fond regret. As I kissed away a tear, " Fare-thee-well until next year Poor Colinette ! " Such a tale is very old, Yet we greet it with a sigh, And, I think, the sternest eye Will grow moister when 'tis told. Altho' many a gay coquette, Poet-like, I've called my flame, On my heart you'll find her name — " Poor Colinette I" 13 TO A FLOWER. VII. TO A FLOWER. (alf. de musset.) What do you wish, sweet floweret, Charming little souvenir Dying half, and half coquette, Tell me what has brought you here ? In this envelope reposing, You have come a weary way ; When a hand your seal was closing. Had this sweet hand naught to say ? Are you but a wither'd rose On the very point of death? Or does your sweet bosom close Over one thought-laden breath ? From your pure white buds I'd guess Innocence and girlish years ; But your happy leaves confess Hope, tho' mix'd, perchance, with tears. Prithee, sweet flower, breathe a hint Of your secret and my doom ; Is there no meaning in your tint ? Nothing in your rich perfume ? 14 TO A FLOWER. If there is, then whisper low. Sweet mysterious little guest ; If there is not, say not, "No," But sleep silent on my breast. Ah, too well I know that hand. Full of grace and girlish glee, As it bound this silken band, Ere it sent you forth to me. White it is, yet warm they say. When the tapering fingers twine ; Would that Love could find a way To make such a treasure mine I But its owner's very sage. And I know not how she'd deem it 1 Sweet flower, let us dread her rage, Tell me nothing, — let me dream it I 15 WINE. VIII. WINE. (CHARLES BAUDELAIKE.) I. THE SOUL OF WINE. In a flagon weird and olden Sang the Soul of Wine one night, " Mortal, for the love I bear thee — Cheated out of every right — Buried in my crystal prison. And this vermeil seal of mine, I bring merry songs of gladness. And of brotherhood divine. ' ' I can see, O weary mortal 1 When the hillside is ablaze In the fierce sun, with what anguish- With what long laborious days. Ye have tended, rear'd me duly. Tended me, until ye find That the soul once ripen'd in me Proves not ingrate nor unkind. "For I feel a mighty thrilling Of deep pleasure, when I fall Down the gullet of a workman. Wearied with his daily thrall ; i6 WINE. For his warm breast is an haven, And a tomb where I can sleep Far more softly, more contented, Than in caverns icy deep. " Dost thou hear the feast-day's laughter? And the feast-day's chorus'd songs ? And the hope that stirs my bosom With the mighty joy it longs ? With thine elbows on the table. And thy gnarl'd arms bare and free. Thou shalt be content and merry, And speak glorious things of me. "I will light a loving passion In the worn eyes of thy wife ; I will change thy sick son's pallor To the healthy hue of life ; I will fit him for the battle, I will be to him the oil That the wrestlers use when struggling. When their limbs are faint with toil. " I will fall upon ye gently. Drop upon ye o'er and o'er, Sweet scatter'd grains of poesy Sown by the eternal Sower 1 17 WINE. Till I deck your fancied promise With the wealth of all my dowers. And ye spring up toward the heavens, Like the rarest, sweetest flowers 1 " II. THE scavenger's BOTTLE. Many a time by some reflected lamp, Whose flickering flame is tortured by the wind. Afar in some deep alley — loathsome, damp With its fermenting mass of human kind — We see a scavenger go staggering by. Clutching at nothing as a poet might, Careless of all the crowd's cruel mockery, Pour out his heart in dreams and projects bright ; Breathe solemn vows, and dictate laws supreme, Endow the pauper, shelter the opprest. Then glow with all the reg^l powers that seem To have their very centre in his breast Struggling with woes unutterably deep, Shivering with famine, and with age worn down. Reeling and tottering 'neath the mighty heap Of all the outcast refuse of the town. i8 WINE. These very people, smelling of the lees Of wine butts, pass again with comrades gray With battles fought on distant lands and seas, — Flags and triumphal arches o'er their way Unfold before them, magic splendors rise. And with the sunbeams dazzling from above. With drums and braying clarions and loud cries, They bring back glory to a people drunk with love. Changing Pactolus-like its banks to gold. Wine rolls across Humanity's drear plain. Singing, thro' mortal throats, its exploits bold, And reigning by its gifts, as monarchs reign. To lull the pain — to still the rancor deep Of these old wretches who in silence fall, God half-remorseful had created sleep, Man added wine, the sweetest gift of all ! III. THE murderer's DRAUGHT. My wife is dead, and I am free To soak me to my soul's content ; Ah, how her cries have shatter'd me When reeling home without a cent I 19 WINE. Now I'm as happy as a king. The air is fresh, the sun ablaze. There's something in this balmy spring That tells me of our courting days. And yet this burning thirst of mine Would almost take as much to still it As e'en her tomb would hold of wine, And that were no slight task to fill it : For I have thrown her down — deep, deep Into a well, and then I hurled The stones and coping in a heap. To shut her in from all the world. For by the thought of that old time, Of which e'en age could not beguile us, And just as in our pas'nate prime. And now, as then, to reconcile us, I pray'd her for a loving tryst At midnight, on the well's dark brink. She came — the trusting fool — by Christ 1 We're all fools, more or less, I think ! She had some trace of beauty yet, Tho' overwork'd perchance, and I — I loved her with a mad regret, And so I bade a long "good-bye " I 20 WINE. None comprehend me — I alone Of all this sottish set of mine Have ever thought — 'twas all my own — To make a winding sheet of wine. This craving and yearning for drink Left me never a time for love, — 'Twas love against wine on the brink, And I settled my choice with a shove ! — Wine with its black infernal joys. And its horrible train of fears, Its chains with awful clinking noise. Its vials of passion and tears ! — Now quite alone, and free at last, I'll pledge her, in my hideous mirth. And, heedless of the cruel past, I'll fling me down upon the earth : I will sleep as a dog might sleep In the slimy filth, and the mud. Till the great wagon wheels plunged deep With a lazy jolt, and a thud Will batter my head like a clod. And crush in my body — ^Ah, well ! I can laugh at it just as God Can laugh at the Devil and Hell ! 21 WINE. IV. THE solitary's FLAGON. A TELL-TALE glance from deep passionate eyes, Which glides toward us, as the white rays glide From the lazy moon to the trembling tide. Where in naked splendor her beauty lies ; The last purse of gold in a gambler's fingers ; A libertine kiss from your lips, my dear ; The sound of music, as thrilling and clear As a cry, where mortal misery lingers ; — All these are not worth, O Flagon profound I The healing balms which you scatter around ; — You bring to the Poet — heart-sick, down-trod — Gushings of hopeful youth, and pride, ay pride — A treasure to those who have naught beside 1 To make us heroes I — liken us to God 1 V. THE lover's wine CUP. There's a charm to-day in the boundless air, As if on a steed, unsaddled and bare, We'll ride on a beaker of rosy wine Thro' the fairy land of a sky divine. 22 THE WEEPING WILLOW. And just as two angels might watch below This horrible fever of griet and woe, We'll follow the mirage illumed afar By the rising sun, and the morning star ; And gently balanced upon the wings Of the whirlwind fierce, and the howling blast, And freed from the trammels of earthly things, We'll fly away both of us fast — fast — fast ! And find in the sky, where the morning gleams, The haven and heaven of all our dreams 1 IX. THE WEEPING WILLOW. (dupont. ) Beneath a weeping willow. Rich with its buds in flower, A violet bed her pillow, The drooping leaves her bower. Darling ! she was lulled to sleep. By the murmur of the deep. Her gentle body presses With a thousand tendernesses Upon the violet bed ; 23 THE WEEPING WILLOW. The jealous branches tremble, With a love they can't dissemble, In deep fringe overhead. And now, as she reposes. The tinge of summer roses Glows deeper on her cheek — 'Mid her rich tresses straying The careless winds are playing At merry hide and seek. The loving waves have caught her Soft image in the water. With many a tender thrill ; So I, when we are parted, Tho' weary, broken-hearted. Shall see her image still. Her balmy breast is heaving, And some sweet dream a-weaving Round her its potent charms ; Will she be much affrighted. At waking, half benighted, In her own lover's arms? Half waking and half sleeping. From silken lashes peeping, Her soft eyes on me beam ; 24 THE MORROWS. And then I draw her to me, Each sweet touch thrilling thro' me, — " Dear one, what was your dream ? ' Soft cheeks and white neck flushing. Half smiling, and half blushing, — "I dreamt, my own, of you, "That I slept beneath a willow "With your fond breast for my pillow, ' ' And, Sweet, my dream is true I " X. THE MORROWS. (dufresny.) Phyllis, greedier far than kind. When Sylvander pray'd for this, Required of her faithful hind Thirty sheep for one short kiss. The morrow, and the shepherd thought Phyllis kind — the bargain cheap. For from the shepherdess he bought Thirty kisses for one sheep. The morrow, Phyllis, far more tender, Trembling she would lose the bliss, 25 DREAMS OF YOUTH. Was very happy to surrender Thirty sheep for one short kiss. The morrow, Phyllis, nearly mad. Found her flock a bribe too small To buy the kiss the fickle lad Gave Lissette for naught at all. XL DREAMS OF YOUTH. (nadaud.) I STILL remember when a child What castles I built in the air. What realms I traversed, lorn and wild, And all the marvels I found there. Things wonderful, and how uncouth. Yet rosy with the touch of morn ; Where are the dazzling dreams of youth And the old house where I was born ? To wander on — the world is round — O'er rugged mountain peaks to climb, To conquer storm-girt seas profound, — This was a dream perhaps too sublime ! Still Athens would I see, till sooth Sad Fortune bid my projects cease; 26 DREAMS OF YOUTH. Where are the dazzling dreams of youth, And where the marbled fanes of Greece ? I had read of love in a book, And I said that I too would love. Till I fasten'd my soul on a look. Like the stars on the suns above. Till loving I found to my ruth It were better my heart were sear ; Where are the dazzling dreams of youth ? And where the roses of last year ? And then with nobler thoughts and proud, I could foresee my riper age Treading upon this miraged cloud, With a slow, steady step, and sage, — Nor see my wisdom — mine forsooth ! Teaching my stubborn heart to bow ; Where are the dazzling dreams of youth. And where are all Christ's precepts now ? Now autumn's here, farewell to spring 1 Yet hope has still a lingering ray, So let us take all Fate can bring. Unmindful what he tears away ; And tho' his promise has no truth. Let him deceive us to the last. Farewell ye dazzling dreams of youth ! Farewell ye bright lies of the past ! 27 THE PICTURES. XII. THE PICTURES. (PARNY. ) I. THE ROSE. 'Tis the golden age of youth Maidenhood with childhood greeting, Candor cloth'd with purest truth. Beauty in her brightest mien, — More than this it is Justine ; Yet her foolish heart is beating At Love's whispers, and believing Honeyed vows too oft deceiving ; While her half-veil'd eyes repose On the lover at her feet. Who, with suppliant air and sweet. Offers her a simple rose ; But Justine must still refuse What her heart would fondly choose ; — When a lover gives he'll crave Far more than he ever gave. II. THE HAND. When we love we soon forget All the prudish wary schemes Wise and foolish ever set To oppose a lover's dreams. 28 THE PICTURES. We do not say, resistance will Blind desires and fire them still ; Or, that loving we may borrow Happy days from years of sorrow. — Thus a fancied love would reason. Thus a false coquette would speak, — With a loving girl 'twere treason If she were not kindly weak ; Glowing with the happiness Of the love that thrills her thro'. She would never dare to guess Lovers' vows could prove untrue. Justine has received the rose. And her lips are all a-tremble With thoughts, she dare not quite disclose. And cannot quite dissemble ; While a little hand, half coldly Shuns a kiss to meet it boldly. Caressing as it is carest — Perhaps a promise of the rest III. THE DREAM. With the dews from poppies shaken Sleep has closed her languid eyes. Closed them till her heart awaken To the meaning of her sighs ; 29 THE PICTURES. Till the flush upon her cheeks Deepens to a rosy red, As her small hand vaguely seeks For some one in the downy bed ; And her beating, throbbing breast Heaves aside the useless veil ; Till a sense of languid rest Steals o'er cheeks and eyelids pale, And her coy half-opened mouth Breathes a murmuring incompleteness. Like the zephyr in the south. Sighing in his very sweetness As from flower to flower he flies, With their pilfer'd perfumes laden — So are all the murmur'd sighs Of a loving, timid maiden. When the hot lips of her lover Come in dreams unsought, unbidden. And with burning kisses cover Charms till then for ever hidden ; Till she in her fond arms press him. Shun his touch and then caress him. How happy Justine's slumber seems. When fill'd with all these glowing dreams I But happier far the man whose kisses Are dreamt of in a dream like this is 1 [IV. and VI. omitted.] 30 THE PICTURES. V. THE KISS. Ah, Justine 1 what have you done ? All this ecstasy of bliss, All this throbbing passion won From one single kiss 1 Lingering kisses never cloy On the loving lips we press. But, perhaps, the foretaste e'en of joy Is love's greatest happiness ; And e'en the remembrance, Sweet, Of this first kiss, always will Make your bosom flush and beat. Till your heart be cold and still. Now your lover scarce believes That 'tis his love inspires you : Better to give than to receive. So he joys in the love that fires you. THE MORROW. With a languid dreamy air Justine works with fancied care ; Happiness has left its trace In her pale bewilder'd face ; 31 THE PICTURES. Fain her wearied half-veil'd eyes Would resist sleep's sweet surprise. As with nervous, trembling fingers O'er her canvas work she lingers. Till she rests her throbbing head On her 'broidery frame instead ; Her voice less firm, but oh how sweet I Her clasping hands, her trembling feet. Her full red lips still softly parted, Her glance as if her soul were started. All tell the secret tale aright Of the happy fatal r^ight VIII. INFIDELITY. In a sylvan green retreat A girl is bending, half in shame. While the gallant at her feet Is vowing his eternal flame ; 'Tis Valsin. To the shady cover Poor happy, credulous Justine Comes thinking, dreaming of her lover. 'T would lake a painter's brush, I ween. To limn the sad bewilder'd scene ! 32 THE PICTURES. IX. REGRETS. Justine is alone, and sighing And I follow where she goes. To her secret chamber flying — Scene of all her bitter woes ; For a while her stifled grief Is very still, then finds relief In a fit of passionate sobbing ; And her tears, too long represt. Fall in torrents on her breast, Heaving, beating, panting, throbbing. Like the stormy waves of ocean Lovely in its wild emotion : Still with Valsin's kisses burning, For his presence madly yearning ; Kneeling with her wearied head Hiding in the snow-white bed, From the garish sun above, Sighing, sobbing, " Is this love ? " THE RETURN. Faithless tho' her lover were. He was constant all the time ; Justine, sweet as she is fair. Has pardoned him the moment's crime ; 33 TO FANNY. Breathing many an ardent vow In his arms he holds her now. To his kisses she replies By her silence and her sighs. Smiling at that passion still Lets that passion have its will. Yet the joy is his alone. And love's pleasure all his own ; For her love, once thrilling madness, Now is Sorrow's crown of sadness ; — Tho' the words are never spoken, You may hear it in her sighs. You may read it in her eyes. That the charm — the charm is broken ! XIII. TO FANNY. (alf. de. mussett.) After your mother's last "good-night," And her last kiss upon the stair, And when beneath the flickering light You bow your giddy head in prayer ; 34 TO FANNY. When all is silent in the town, And every thought of care has fled, When you let your tresses down. And peer in fright beneath your bed ; When teeming brains have ceased to whirl, And e'en maternal eyes are winking, I wonder, Fan, my darling girl, I wonder what on earth you're thinking ! Who knows ? perhaps of wondrous bonnets. Just suited to your saucy head. Of novels, cookery books, and sonnets. Of torments and your brother Ted ; Perhaps of the mountains over there. Whose rugged brows are strangely steepled, And perhaps of "Castles in the air,'' With lovers and with bon-bons peopled. Perhaps of the thrilling real romance That Annie whisper'd over tea. Perhaps of your last new song or dance. Of nothing perhaps — and perhaps of me. 35 HYMN TO BEAUTY. XIV. HYMN TO BEAUTY. (BAUDELAIRE. ) Whence earnest thou, O Beauty ? whence — ah, who can tell ? From the deep blue heavens, or from the depths of hell ? With thy pas'nate glances — infernal and divine, Mingling good and evil, like the juice of potent wine ? Thy deep eyes can tell us of sunset and sunrise And thy sweets are scatter'd like scents in sultry skies ; Thy kisses are a filter, thy lips a power untold, To make the heroes cowards, and trembling children bold. Cam'st thou from the stars, or from the black abyss .■' That we should fawn like dogs, and whine for a touch — a kiss ; Governing all the world, and answerable for naught, Sowing joy in a hope and anguish in a thought. With cruel smiling scorn thou tramplest on the dead — Horror is but a gem to grace thy haughty head, 36 HYMN TO BEAUTY. And Murder but a gaud — a chain wherewith to deck In many an amorous fold thy pitiless breasts and neck. Fluttering moth-like round thee in pas'nate haste we yearn To reach thy dazzling splendor, and bless thee as we burn — Panting with joy the lover in his sweet bridal room, Seems like one death-stricken, caressing and kissing his tomb. Whether from God or Satan, why should mortals care. Beauty wildly lovely, wantonly, weirdly fair ! If with thine eyes, thy smiles thou openest unto me The awful unknown portals of vast infinity ! Whether Angel or Siren, from hell or from the skies. What matter? If thou givest, Sweet with the velvet eyes, Rhythme, perfume, light to wile us from our woe. To make the world less hideous, the dreary hours less slow ! 37 THE GULF OF BAYA. XV. THE GULF OF BAYA. (lamartine. ) Mark you how the peaceful wave Gently dies upon the shore 1 — Breezes sweet with pilfer'd store Fan, and dip, and splash and lave The laughing waters evermore ! Sit we in this faery skiff. Lazily adown we'll row Round the Gulf and past the cliff. Winding with the river's flow. Now far behind us glides the river. And on we go as if for ever ; And brushing o'er the creamy foam With trembling hands our oars we ply While in the distance seems to die The silvery track that tells of home. What freshness in a dying day ! Plunged into Thetis' bosom white The Sun has yielded up his sway To the pale Queen of Night. The bosoms of the half-closed flowers Open, to give their choicest dowers Of love, to Zephyr's balmy kisses — Ne'er a tiny plant he misses, But carries, and spreads, for very mirth. Over the waves the scents of earth, 38 THE GULF OF BAYA. What sweet songs ! and what sweet laughter ! On the waves, and on the sea, While we hear a moment after Echo hailing them with glee. Mistrustful of the rising moon. And whistling some old Roman tune. The fisher takes his angle home; While tender youths, and dark-eyed maids, By babbling rills, and myrtle glades, Gather life's blisses as they roam. But already darkness falls, Black and fearsome grows the sea. Gone are all those merry calls, Dread silence where those calls should be ! Now croaks the frog, the night-owl flits. And deep-brow'd melancholy sits Brooding o'er the ruin'd scene. For every stone and statue fair. Each half-wall'd Temple crumbling there. Can tell of what has been. For crush'd beneath the weight of some fell despot's sway, Naught is there left of freedom — naught of the olden time, Where, in Italia's borders, can we find to-day Men to hail as heroes, and deeds to term sublime ? Each grass-grown stone — each ruin hoary Should call up burning thoughts of liberty and glory ; 39 THE GULF OF BAYA. Just as in some old temple, tho' of its charms bereft, We feel the influence still the former god has left- Yet Brutus' shades, and Cato's, still fondly call in vain For manly hearts to build the old world up again — Go ask these ruin'd walls, and crumbling as they are. They'll give you happier thoughts, and mem'ries sweeter far ! Here Horace had his country seat. And here in solitude he wrought ; Here quiet ease, and graceful thought. And leisure found a last retreat ; Propertius met his Cynthia here. And to his Delia's glances clear Tibullus breath'd in tuneful notes his tender strain ; And further down behold where hapless Tasso sung — The glorious thoughts that flashed across a poet's brain. Could not shield from penury — could not save from pain. But drove him forth an exile reviled by every tongue I 40 THE GULF OF BAY A. And back to these same borders at last he came — to die, He came, when Glory call'd him, and perish'd in her womb, The bays he madly yearn 'd for again appear'd to fly- The tardy laurel ripen'd but to darken o'er his tomb ! O Hill of Baya ! — Home of Bards sublime ! Beneath thy greensward, and thy scented thyme, All that is noblest in us lies ! For Love and Glory now are thine no more. The only answers to my cries Are the dull ocean's sullen sighs, And my own voice re-echoed from the shore ! Thus all is changed, and all is past, Thus we ourselves must pass away ! For nothing in this world can last. But Life and Love are gone as fast As the bright track that mark'd our way I 41 REMEMBER ME. XVI. REMEMBER ME. (SEGUR. ) You must leave me, darling, for glory, fame, and strife, My sad heart shall follow where'er you chance to be — Away ! Shake off the chains that bound your boyhood's life, Follow honor, darling, but still remember me ! To Duty, as to Love, be steadfast, true, and leal. Seek and strive for glory, shame and dishonor fiee. Ever when you're rushing upon the foeman's steel. First among the foremost, but still remember me. Tho' I tremble for you 'mid the fierce clang of arms, I almost dread the time when peace shall set you free, Then will other maidens, with nobler, lovelier charms, Fondly smile upon you, but still remember me. Love and Mars together cause many a maid to pine, And there'll be broken hearts among the girls you see. Perhaps softer lips you'll press, but none so true as mine, Yes, be happy, darling, but still remember me. 42 SUNSET. XVII. SUNSET. (v. HUGO.) Oh hey, then, for wings in the clouds, Let me fly away, let me fly, Afar from where mortals in crowds. But weary and sicken and die ! Let me fly to the worlds of the bright. Ere the spark of being is out. Enough of the gloom of the night, Enough, too, of longing and doubt 1 The voice which I hear from on high, I'll understand better up there, Oh hey, then, for wings in the sky. Or a sail-driven vessel of air ! I am longing to visit the stars. And the flaming cross of the South, And, maybe in Venus or Mars, I'll satisfy longing and drouth. And perhaps, too, a son of the lyre May read the words writ on the sky, In the starry pages of fire, And tell them to all by and by ! 43 FOR EVER. XVIII. FOR EVER. (e. de girardin. ) Alas I I've made the cruel vow. My cruel mother bade me make, I must not own I love him now, Altho' my loving heart should break 1 I must not look the things I feel, I must avoid him when alone, But if his love be true and leal His heart will surely read my own. In vain, I bind myself to keep This law, however hard it be — There is a language, mute but deep. Which will betray in spite of me. And tho', whene'er he tries to speak. Still faithful to the vow I fly, My very fears will prove me weak And let him guess the reason why. Since I remember once he said He loved a simple dress the best, I'll have some flowers upon my head. And his own bouquet in my breast ; 44 FOR EVER. ni strive to hide my longing glance. And wait, not seek him at the ball. But surely in the passionate dance My throbbing heart will tell him all. If I must sing when he is there, I'll choose one of his fav'rite songs — Some sweetly sad, lone, plaintive air. That hopes and fears and loves and longs ; And tho' I sing the whole song thro' With downcast looks, and drooping eyes, He'll guess, he'll know that I am true. In spite of all this forced disguise. They bid me laugh away my tears. But how shall I a light heart feign ? No, I will shun all those he fears. Rather than give one moment's pain ; And, tho' I hide my aching heart, I'll live for him — for him alone, And so, when we are forced to part. His heart at last will read my own. 45 VENICE. XIX. VENICE. (alf. de musset. ) In Venice not a barque Is stirring, — all is dark, For thro' the gloomy night Breaks ne'er a light. The lion, gaunt and grand. Seated upon the strand. Scans the wide waters o'er For evermore. While many a ship and boat, In groups around him float. Like herons lull'd to sleep Upon the deep. Over the misty sea Fluttering lazily, Streamers and sails unfurl'd, Clinging and curl'd. 46 VENICE. Now the moon's dreamy light Is flooding all the night. From many a glimmering cloud. Her airy shroud — Just as some novice would Draw on her ample hood, Yet leaving still, I ween. Her beauty seen. And the still water flows Past mighty porticoes, And stairs of wealthy knights. In lordly flights And the pale statues gleam In the pure light, and seem Like visions of the past. Come back at last 1 All silent, save the sound Of guards upon their round. As on the battled wall Their footsteps fall. More than one damsel stays Beneath the pale moon's rays, And waits, with eager ear. Her cavalier ; 47 VENICE. More than one girl admiring The charms she is attiring ; More than one mirror shows Black dominoes. La Vanina is lying, With languid raptures dying Upon her lover's breast Half lull'd to rest. Narcisa, Folly's daughter ! Holds festal on the water. Until the opal morning Is softly dawning. Who then in such a clime But has a madcap time ? Who but to Love can give Life, while he live ? Let the old Doge clock strike, And hammer as it like. And count with jealous spite The hours of night ; But we will count instead, On full lips rosy red. So many kisses earn'd. And then return'd ; 48 THE SONG OF THIRTY YEARS. Count all your charms, my dear ; Count every happy tear, That loving hearts must borrow From joy and sorrow. XX. THE SONG OF THIRTY YEARS. (nadaud. ) Time, my pretty one, is flying. Strange that we should meet. Where the very road seems dying. In its last retreat ; And the Sun in gloomy splendor, Lurks behind the hill. E'en a dying day is tender. Let me — let me love you still. Tho' your glances only fashion Ancient memories, There is still a depth of passion In your liquid eyes ; If the Sun his brightness loses Under autumn skies, I can tell what home he chooses. Let me — let me read your eyes. 49 LIKE A SERPENT DANCING. Smooth as Parian marble now, In a few years more. Jealous Time will limn your brow, With his tokens o'er. And bleach all your locks, my girl. Now black as jet ; Trust me with one glossy curl To kiss and fondle yet. Very soon a rosy, blushing Dimpled cheek like this is. Will lose all its joyous flushing At my long, long kisses ; And your lips will lose, my sweetest, Their gay golden smile, Tho' most fragrant flowers are fleetest. Kiss me with these lips awhile. XXI. LIKE A SERPENT DANCING. (BAUDELAIRE. ) How I love, my languid girl. Your voluptuous motion. Flashing, as a star might swirl, 'Cross the starry ocean ; 50 LIKE A SERPENT DANCING. With your balmy locks, half free. Falling, falling down, Vagabond and odorous sea, With blue waves and brown 1 Like a starting ship awaking At the morning breeze, So my dreamy soul is taking Flight for distant seas. Your deep eyes, which ne'er reveal Bitter things or sweet, Are two frozen gems, where steel And cruel gold rays meet. There is music's sweetest rhyme In your swaying roll, Like a serpent keeping time On a balanced pole. When your head bows 'neath the burden Of its sweet idlesse. Every motion seems a guerdon Of a soft caress. And your body sways and fails As a vessel might, When its full-blown creaking sails Touch the breakers white ; 51 THE TRYST. Till your lips are moist and quivering With their pas'nate bliss. And your very soul seems shivering In a liquid kiss ; Like some rare Bohemian wine — Conquering wine and tart, Sowing, sky-like drink divine. Stars within my heart 1 XXII. THE TRYST. (de la. vigne.) The dawn has charm'd the storm away With purple and with azure dyes. And every rippling wave at play Reflects the glory of the skies ; Upon its cosy, grassy nest, Aroused from dreams of love and bliss. The rose unfolds its glowing breast To woo the zephyr's morning kiss ; While every soaring warbler sings In loving songs unknown before, And to the oak the ivy clings More tenderly than e'er of yore ; — 52 A LOVE SONG. For surely in this dainty dell, Half flooded in a crimson light, The flowers, the grass have heard you tell That you would meet me here to-night. XXIII. A LOVE SONG. (lamartine. ) O Lyre 1 if thou canst rival on thy strings The tender trembling of the zephyr's wings, Athwart the feathering oar, Or waves that murmur on until they die. Or the fond turtle's plaintive cooing cry, Upon the echoing shore ; If like the balmy breath of some sweet rose Thy chords the glorious mysteries disclose. Deep hidden in the skies, Where angels tell in azure vaults above Their soundless ecstasies of yearning love,— Like soft eyes unto eyes ; If thy sweet strain, in its melodious roll. Could fan and kiss my darling's fainting soul. Like Love's first thrilling breath, 53 A LOVE SONG. And cradle it upon the airy shrouds, As heaven's soft wind the stilly silver clouds. At daylight's purple death ; While sleeping on the dainty flowers she lies — My voice would breathe in longing-laden sighs A lifetime of emotion. Pure as the joys with which her glances fill me, Sweet as the fairy murmurings which thrill me From dreamland's echoing ocean 1 Open your eyes, my sweet one ! let me see If your fringed lashes hide one thought of me, — One message from your mind ; To me your liquid depths are far more dear Than the first burst of sunlight warm and clear. To open'd eyes — born blind. One bended arm her drooping neck caresses ; The other, o'er her forehead softly presses Its snow-flush'd covering, Just as the turtle, when in search of sleep, Curves her white rounded neck, and plunges deep Her head 'neath ruffled wing. The low-breathed music of her bosom's motion Is mingling with the harmony of ocean ; While her long silken lashes Shadow a moment on her cheek, then seem To pass as quickly as a shadowy dream Across a deep eye flashes. 54 A LOVE SONG. Sweet be your dreams, my darling- ! soft your rest 1 What thought my own is sending thro' your breast This deep — this long-drawn sigh ? — Twin waves that blanch the white rays of the moon. In billowing motion, then, ah me ! too soon They murmur on to die ! O, let me breathe upon your lips and take Your balmy breath, until my sweet awake — The azure of the skies Courts the first welcome from your timid sight. But, sweet, your soft glance when it sees the light, Seeks only for mine eyes. Till our deep glances blend in one long gaze, Like sparkling waves bedeck'd with summer's rays, And each to other bears The trembling flames that evermore will burn. When youthful hearts desire, and pant, and yearn With love, and love's despairs. 55 A LOVE SONG. Until a tear-drop gems your drooping lashes. And like a wandering cloud, conceals the flashes That come from lovelit eyes. Just as we see upon some rosy morn The sun conceal'd behind the tears of dawn, — Half hidden in the skies. O Darling, let your soft voice speak In words that thrill me thro' to hear. Till from their pas'nate meaning weak, They seem to die within mine ear, Bidding my half-lull'd soul awake And list for love and music's sake. A breath, a sigh, then all is still. Yet 'tis enough, my soul has heard The tuneful melody, and will Have power to guess each broken word ; Just as the flowerets in the grass Know what the waves say as they pass. Red lips half parted in a smile. When lingering words expire, Have sounds for me an after while, As thro' some soft ^olian lyre The very wind that passes by Becomes an angel's minstrelsy. 56 A LOVE SONG. Why hide your charms beneath your silken hair ? Let me dispel the clouds that shields your blushes ; Why should you blush, my sweet, at being fair? Yet morn at its own beauty glows and flushes, And loveliness is ever deck'd with modest care, Where beauty is, be sure a veil is nigh. As if to guard it for the sky. Your eyes are sister rivers. Where heaven is imaged bright, Where the soft fringe quivers And shows their azure light, Till each thought that in you lies, Flashes, darling, thro' your eyes. And leaves its image there. Just as on the river's breast The wandering shadows rest Of swans that cleave the air. Your brow, rich locks half veiling, Half covering in their play, Is like a sweet night paling, And longing for the day ; And your mouth, dear, with its smiles Like the retiring wiles Of ocean backward blown, When she half reluctant grieves For the dainty pearls she leaves Upon the borders strewn. 57 A LOVE SONG. Your feet one moment lying Half hidden in the grass. Till all the flowers are vying To kiss them as they pass, And each motion of that warm, Lithesome, dainty, soft-curved form. So unconstrain'd, so free, Blends like some ethereal choir To the soft attuned lyre, In one sweet harmony. Upon the blue lake's edge there is a hill. Whose grass-grown brow is bending, fixt, and still To watch the water's flow ; Lit up all day by the bright sun's warm glance, And all day long its quivering shadows dance In the cool depths below. Two oaks, near standing, where a wild-grown vine Clasps their far-outstretch'd boughs, till they entwine, A crown on each girds round. With its pale verdure bright'ning their dull leaves. Till many a happy, gay festoon it weaves. And shadows on the ground. 58 A LOVE SONG. There 'neath a deep-brow'd rock that hangs above, A grotto opes — where many a turtle-dove Has coo'd her heart away ; Curtain'd by vines and fig-leaves from the view, Where garish sunbeams slowly loiter thro' To measure out the day. Night, and the freshness of the friendly gloom Preserves long time the timid, fleeting bloom To the sweet violets, And, at its further depth, a crystal stream Is falling, drop by drop, until we dream Of tears and fond regrets. The eye, in piercing this green curtain thro' Marks but the deep blue waves, and skies more blue. And, on the water's breast, The fisher's sail, when boldly out it flings Athwart the liquid sky, like quivering wings Of swallows half at rest. The ear can list to sweet sounds evermore. Like a long kiss, of waves upon the shore. As every riplet dies, Or Philomela's song with passion yearning. Or the far echo from the rocks returning. To mingle with our sighs. 59 A LOVE SONG. Come, let us seek this happy shade. Now that the broad sun dies away, And flowerets close their buds, and fade Beneath the languid glance of day ; This is a heaven, sweet, meant for thee. Oh raise thy veil, and let me see Eyes that outshine the starry skies ; Whether you speak, or sigh, or dream Let, dear, a passing, fleeting gleam Come hither from those star-lit eyes. Oh let me ! let me strew with roses, This downy moss, this rustic seat. And, as your dainty form reposes, I'll fliiig myself beside your feet ; Happy the green-grown turf you press. The buds you thoughtlessly caress, Happy the vermeil lips you kiss With lips more vermeil still than these. Until they cling like garnering bees. Their own true loves, in search of bliss 1 If a crown of lilies she weaves In her hair, with girlish glee. If but one of the broken leaves Is wafted by the winds to me ; If a soft ringlet of her hair. While toying with the sweet cool air. But wantons with my lips and breath ; If her pure bosom heaves a sigh. Over my brow there passes by A feeling like the wings of death. 60 A LOVE SONG. Do you remember, dear, the day When the great gods, with tender hand, Cast you forth upon my way — A shadow on a desert sand ? Oh from that hour to this, my own, My life's been bound to yours alone. And, like a goblet from above, O'er-brimming was the cup I quaffed, And still in every long-drawn draught I find sweet innocence and love. Time with his jealous icy blast Will wither all your charms, like sweet flowers past, And dead, in winter's tomb ; Till soft, red lips are kissless, and the joy They now can give, tho' now alas ! too coy. Has perished with their bloom. Yet when your eyes, veil'd in a cloud of tears, Shall mourn the rigor of the fleeting years. And see each grace depart. When in the past, as in a stream, you gaze, And seek the lovely form of other days, Look rather in my heart ; There will your beauty flourish years untold, There will my loyalty watch you as of old. And keep you still the same ; 6i ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL. Just as a golden lamp, some holy maid Might shelter with her hand, while thro' the shade She bears the trembling flame. Oh when Death smiling comes, as come he must. And shatters our twin torches in the dust, A stronger love shall bloom. Then shall my last sweet resting-place be thine And your soft hand clasped tenderly in mine. In our last bed, the tomb ! Or, rather, darling, let us fly away, Just as upon some glorious autumn day Two loving swans might rise, And, still caressing, leave their wonted nest. And seek for brighter lands, and climes more blest. And fuller, deeper skies ! XXIV. ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL. (PARNT.) Her age just flying childhood's playtime. As bright and innocent as Maytime ; Each charm, each grace, each feature told Of Love's affinity and power, And that Love's passions might unfold At any day, at any hour ; 62 SLEEPLESSNESS. Fate, deeming she was all too fair For us, and our drear world of care, Let her give back her soul to heaven. As pure and spotless as 'twas given ; And thus, without a parting sigh, A smile fades off some eager face. And thus the cushat's song might die, Without an echo or a trace ! XXV. SLEEPLESSNESS. (nadaud. ) Filling the silent night with dread. The dismal clock is tolling one, As vainly on my burning bed I pray for sleep, or for the Sun ; But Care, the child of grim unrest, Brings a ghost to my whirling brain, And tho' an hundred times represt. An hundred times it comes again ; O Fairy, or Muse, or Immortal, Who scentest my dreams like a posy. Fling open the golden portal Of a land where all is rosy ! (>3 SLEEPLESSNESS. Recalling childhood's hours, and giving To the dim future all you dare, Life were scarcely worth the living If Hope and Memory were not there ; People my house, as long ago. With the old friends I mourn and weep- Ah, 'twould appease the daytime's woe Could I but see them in my sleep. Distance and Time would disappear. Just as a flash of light goes by. And, spurning all that binds me here, I'd cleave the azure of the sky. Ah, what a depth in that blue sky. With rugged mountains softly blent. As here we wandered, you and I, And singing, painting as we went. See, friend, that young girl coyly leaning Across the flower-grown window-sill, Memory forgets her name and meaning, But brings me back her features still ; Is it Minna, or fair Lulu ? Oh whisper your name very low. My Life it is you, it is You — I dare not breathe your name — ah no 1 64 NEW SONG TO AN OLD AIR. My wound is still open and bleeding, She gives me her hand, half in sorrow. With a voice, how soft in its pleading-, She whispers, "To-morrow — to-morrow I" She flies, I will follow my own ! But distance and time overtake me. Till to-morrow leave me alone. And to-morrow do not awake me ! XXVI. NEW SONG TO AN OLD AIR. (v. HUGO.) Is there a tuft of grass, Naught to deface it, Where, in their tiny mass. Sunny flowers grace it ; Where purple, gold, and red, Mix in their scented bed.? Under her fairy tread Softly I'd place it. Is there a loving breast. Fond as the willow Watching the stream at rest. Pure as its billow ; 65 A VILLAGE MAIDEN'S SONG. Filled with great thoughts, and free From all infirmity ? Sweet, such were meant for thee, Meant for thy pillow. Is there a loving dream, Perfumed with roses, Where every sunny beam Fresh charms discloses. Love-dream which God has blest Where fond souls meet, and rest ? Then upon such a nest Thy heart reposes. XXVII. A VILLAGE MAIDEN'S SONG. (dupont. ) How happy I am to-day, Under these old trees. Singing blithely, merrily. Snatches of gay glees ; The willow is in flower. With buds the hawthorn gleaming, As I sing the idle thoughts. My silly head is dreaming. 66 A VILLAGE MAIDEN'S SONG. The happy bird is singing, I am singing too. But my song's worth more than his — Endless, deep and true. The bird is fearful of the wind. And biting frosts and showers. While my happy path is strewn With nothing but gay flowers. If a viper lurk within, I say, nothing loath, " Sir, go your way, I go mine — Room enough for both." My parents love me fondly, And, darling souls, are willing To deck their little idiot out With many a hard-earned shilling. Each one, when I am passing. Tries to steal a glance. And each, when I am dancing. Begs me for a dance. There is only one I love. But will he ever know it ? If he cannot read my love. How can I ever show it .' 67 FAREWELL. Rosy mouth and sparkling eyes Tell him, o'er and o'er, That a maiden longs to be Loved a little more. XXVIII. FAREWELL. (alf. de musset.) Farewell ! Farewell, tho' maybe, dear, We part for ever, let us bow — Fate calling you has left me here To feel I never loved as now. Not one sad tear — one fond regret Shall well up from my aching heart, I can respect the future yet. And smiling, I can see you start. You go in all your joy and pride. In joy and pride you'll soon come back. When those who for your presence sigh'd. Have pass'd away without a track. 68 WISDOM. Farewell ! fulfil your rosy dreams, Drain Pleasure's cup, 'twill drown her sighs ; The star that o'er your life-path gleams, Will dazzle all our watching eyes. One day, perchance, you'll guess the woith Of one true heart in unison, To cheer us in our fight on earth — And what we feel when this is gone 1 XXIX. WISDOM. (lamartine.) Ye who pass away like shades. From this dull dreary world of tears. Travellers thro' these gloomy glades. Brethren mine in griefs and fears I List ye now, as deeper, higher. Sounds the thrilling glowing lyre, Bidding Thabor's rocks rejoice ; Sion, levell'd to the ground, Trembling thinks it is the sound Of the old Segorian's voice. 69 WISDOM. Hapless are the fools who think — Every thought is now a crime. As God bade ye, eat and drink, Gayly live while yet there's time ; He knovveth why the stars are glowing. He knoweth why the waves are flowing, What waves and stars will never show ye. Why day fades 'mid glowing skies. Why man breathes a sigh, then dies. And ye mortals now what know ye ? Sit ye down beside the fountains. Where the shade toys with the breeze, Where, from g^een-clad hills and mountains, Streams a babbling 'mid the trees. Where the cooling streams are rushing Press ye out the red juice blushing — Blushing into crimson wine. Hand to hand the cup pass round. Careless heads with myrtles bound. Aching hearts with joys divine. Choose ye then a rose of roses. From the garlands of Sharon, Some sweet maid whose form discloses Charms but meant to be your own ; Toying with her ebon tresses Steep your soul in wild caresses. Live, and love, and be ye wise ; 70 WISDOM. Aught beyond her glowing charms, Aught beyond her clasping arms, Is but vanity and lies. As a lily in the night By the heavy rain down-borne. If the Lord's strong arm should smite, Bow ye down your heads and mourn ; One tear shed before his feet Is an incense far more sweet Than a thousand temples' fires. And a wounded heart's deep sighs Sooner to his presence rise Than the altar's softest lyres. Stars roll onwards in their course. Heedless what their route may be. And the Jordan spends its force Seeking ever for the sea ; Butterflies are flitting till Instinct bears them at its will. Leaflets, when the summer's past. Careless whitherwards they stray. Hurried onwards by the play Of the whirlwind of the blast. Why with care and labor sore Poison ye your bounded lot ? To-day is surely worth far more Than cycles which as yet are not ! 71 THE ART OF PLEASING. Pass away when life is spent ! Go, where all your fathers went ! Sleep, where all your fathers lie 1 Perhaps another day will dawn, Perhaps a rosier, happier morn Like Aurora in the sky ! XXX. THE ART OF PLEASING. (deguerle.) You tell me that to bind a lover You have no beauty — have no charms. And weeping, darling, you discover How vain are all these false alarms ; And yet, because of these sweet fears You ne'er look lovelier than in tears. I love your dimpled smiling frown. Your lips as ripe and red as roses. Your eyes half peeping, half cast down, Your brow where modesty reposes, I love your voice when whispering sweet, Your caressing hands, your clasping arms, I love your dainty little feet, I love you, dear, for all your charms, 72 THE ART OF PLEASING. For in them all my spirit sees A soul far lovelier than these. Alas ! the rosiest cloud of morn Can only for one moment last, One moment — and 'tis onward borne For ever, on the scouring blast ; For beauty leaves when once 'tis seen But the regret of having been. Soon faded were each beauteous face, Like some dull shapeless block of stone, Without Love's vivifying grace To sculpture out charms all his own. Two words will teach the art of charming To you — to me — to all, my dear, A simple spell, with naught alarming. And, if you cannot find it here. Go, seek it in the stars above — The art of charming is — To love ! 73 URSULA. XXXI. URSULA. (nadaud. ) This morning, to my chamber, As I lay there sleeping-. Came a fairy, girlish Sprite Round the curtains peeping. Half hiding in the curtains, Half glimmering thro', — I dreamt of you, Ursula — Dreamt of you. She had your face, my darling. And your full soft breast, But there seem'd somewhat in them Yours have ne'er exprest ; Her manner more confiding. Her eyes more blue, I dreamt of you, Ursula, — Dreamt of you. Your modesty was blushing At its sweet alarms. As you coyly clutch 'd your robe Over all your charms ; 74 URSULA. But the robe was only tulle. And looking- thro', I dreamt of you, Ursula, — Dreamt of you. Drawing gently to my couch, Till so near, so near, That your lips were whispering Secrets in my ear. Heedless then of all the world What could I do ?— I dreamt of you, Ursula, — Dreamt of you. Oh, curse the clumsy servant Hammering at the door ! Till my fairy sprite was gone. And my dream was o'er — What can I do but strive, dear, To sleep anew, And dream of you, Ursula ? — Dream of you ? 75 IN THE CHURCH OF • • • XXXII. IN THE CHURCH OF * * * (v. HUGO.) It was an humble church with broadening por- tico — The church to which we came, Where for three hundred years fond souls had wept their woe, And pas'nate souls their shame. Sad it was, and calm as the twilit sky above, The church to which we came, The unwatch'd altar, like a heart bereft of love, Had lost its tapers' flame. Many a child and mother upon this sounding floor. Had reverently trod, And from these ancient stalls uprise, for ever- more, Deep prayers, like ours, to God ! Mute is the organ now, the master-player gone To angels' songs on high. He, who wrung forth such strains in his deep plegethon As made men long to die ! 76 IN THE CHURCH OF • * • Oh, for a hand like his ! Oh, for a loving touch To make each note sonorous I Of yearning hope, and love, and mercy breathe as much As could an angels' chorus 1 Body without a soul, mute in the nave it stands, — A gem case nothing worth ; Yet at the caressing touch of some skill'd master's hands It brings down heaven to earth. For the deep organ's strains, the tempest's burly throe. The streamlet babbling free. Murmur perchance unto some few of us below. Thoughts of Infinity 1 The church seems lull'd to rest, enveloped in the gloom Of Nature's sombrest guise, Save where the flickering lamps, in the far dis- tance loom, Like tear-besprinkled eyes. Each passing word we hear, borne on the wings of night — Each scarcely utter'd prayer, As in some lone forest the last bird's drowsy flight. Falls thro' the silent air. 77 IN THE CHURCH OF • • ♦ And, while we are praying, with souls o'ercome with awe, Half hoping, half afraid. Something, greater, nobler, than mortal ever saw. Seems dying in the shade. Sad it was, and calm as the twilit sky above. The church to which we came ; The unwatch'd altar, like a heart bereft of love. Had lost its tapers' flame. Your brow in clasping hands is bended lowly down. Like the rain-smitten grass. While, in the far distance, from the gay, noisy town Numberless voices pass. And the passing voices sing blithely and cheerily, "Now is the time for joy, For us the gold cups brim with red wine merrily, Tho' others' lips they cloy. "Let us love and be happy, for springtime is dying, The urn is quickly fill'd. Snatch at the sunny hours and seize them while they're flying. Ere merry lips be still'd. 78 IN THE CHURCH OF * * * "Let us take from each object the best of its dower, Take soft warmth from the fire, Wine from the ripen'd grape, and perfume from the flower. From soft eyes fond desire ; ' ' Taste them — taste them throughly, while still they can entrance. While still they can beguile Springtime's parting zephyr, and daylight's parting glance. And beauty's parting smile ; " Go to the end of all, still heaping as we live Excesses on excesses, Tho' death be in the touch this touch has power to give The sweetest of caresses. " In the rosy beaker, methinks I love the best The last drop ever quaffd. There, many a time and oft, lies hidden and comprest The essence of the draught. "Why then should we hasten to skim each pleasure o'er ? Should we not rather leap To snatch where some rich pearl, unknown, un- seen before, Lies buried in the deep. 79 IN THE CHURCH OF * * • " With hands o'er-teeming now, fools are we but to gaze At what we scarce can clutch, Just as some breathless child at running, chasing plays. And joys in running much. "Enjoy at leisure, 'tis the kindest gift of fate In our short merry bout, Till, like a torch down hurl'd upon the iron grate. Our lives go sparkling out. "Not aping him who saw his image in the stream. And wept for't ever after. Since all sweet fruits and flowers on earth, the meetest seem For red lips ripe with laughter. " Sad men, with firm-press'd lips, and eyes serene and cold. Are mortal after all ; Their mighty hearts will melt at the mere touch of gold. And bend to some girl's thrall. "They fall like us in spite of all their foolish pride, And their vain bitterness, — The loftiest waves upon the foaming, dashing tide Soon grovel with the less. 80 IN THE CHURCH OF * • • "Live we then, and drink we, from even-song to morn ; Oblivion yields relief, Till the cups are shatter 'd, and festal napkins torn Like face-cloths of pale grief. "The gloomy shade that flits 'cross pleasure's vermeil track, And joy's bright sunny glade We heed not — eyes cast sunwards, if we look not back We shall not see the shade. "What tho' despair, and grief, and misery and the tomb Above our heads may shake ! What tho' behind us something black as midnight gloom Is dragging in our wake ! ' ' We shall not know it — to the rear all that lowers And tells of mortal woes, Should we then in making a coronet of flowers Have pity on the rose ? ' ' Aught in life worth having — the rest is for the tomb — Is something that will fire us, A merry song — a ray of light — a sweet perfume — With gayer thoughts inspire us. 6 8i IN THE CHURCH OF * * * "To-morrow never comes, 'tis evermore to-day, And crown'd with glee and joy — Oh woeful is the heart that yields to sorrow's sway. And finds that pleasures cloy ! " Life is some mad ogre that ever craves for more. And craving, shouts and laughs — Till the last torch is quench'd, and the last flagon o'er — His regal cup he quaffs." While the great town's voices breaking the dead of night. And swelling thro' the air, Said happiness, and joy, and pride, and love's de- light. Your soft mild eyes said "prayer 1 " They spoke too loud by far — and you — you spoke too low : " Oh God who brought me here, And still reserve me here for many a bitter woe Which I must trembling fear, " Have pity on me, for my sailless skiff is led Where'er 'tis willed by You ; If guardian angels watch o'er the pure infant's head, Why not o'er women too? 82 IN THE CHURCH OF * • » "I know our days are naught — our morning, noon, and night Is nothing when 'tis weigh'd 'Gainst Yours — You are the real, the palpable, the bright, Aught else is only shade. "I know it : but within this shade I grope, and fall And fain would ask my way ; Oh, who will answer while I linger, as I call. And listen as I pray ? " No answer comes, but still as here and there I tread, A wild fear thrills me thro' ; If guardian angels watch o'er the young infant's head. Why not o'er women, too ? "OLord, near me no prattling lips, no loving eyes, No hearthside where to rest. No lordly palace towering almost to the skies. No lowly mossy nest ; " No bright beacon gleaming to guide me to the land. None who would care to dress it ; Alas, no friendly arm to clasp my outstretched hand. No loving touch to press it ! 83 IN THE CHURCH OF • • • ' ' Lord, far away from You, I fall where I am hurl'd, And weep there as I lie. Forgotten in the ruins of a dreary world As if thrown out to die ! " Yet have I done no ill in this world hard as brass, You, Lord, know all my ways. Unruffled all my thoughts, and hidden actions, pass Before Your piercing gaze. " Half of my goods I give unto the poor, and call To me the faint and ill, Tho' none e'er pity me I comfort, solace all, And suffer, and am still. "Never regardless. Lord, of Your love, or Your hate, Have I said what care I ; But when I see some lingering pilgrim, dreaming wait, I show your door is nigh. "You know it. Lord, and still you let my wild tears flow, Unsoothed, undried, I ween ; All breaks beneath my touch, all trembles where I go. And falls on which I lean. " My life is hapless now, joyless from childhood's hours. Is this, O Lord, Your will ? All sunbeams from the sky, that o'er me looms and lowers. One by one, faded still. 84 IN THE CHURCH OF • • ♦ " Alas ! for me there is no change of ebb and flow, No change of shade and light, Each day my spirit sinks still lower and more low Among dreams black as night ! "They say on w^earied hearts, asick with grief and pain, Your saving help descends ; Sustain me, Lord, I pray ! O Lord my God sus- tain, — On You my all depends ! " I gazed long time on her, poor creature, as she pray'd So longingly to God, And found her grave, and sweet, and fair, yet passing staid, Worthy the ground she trod. I whisper' d, seeking not to trouble her who pray'd. So sorrow-worn and weak. If by some chance she could not hear within the shade Far kindlier voices speak — For at the fall of years, as at the sunny glow Of youth's bright rosy day, God's holy altar, when a woman bendeth low. Has something still to say. 85 IN THE CHURCH OF • * ♦ "Lady, why let these griefs and bitter sorrows blight, Oh why still weep and mourn. You with the charming heart, tho' gloomy as the night. As pure as rosy dawn ? "There are two cups in life — one bitter, and one sweet — All taste, not you alone ; What then if life is crushed beneath your trembling feet, Your soul is still your own. "And very soon your soul will bear you to the breast Of peaceful azure skies. Where troubles cease, and where the weary are at rest. Afar from mortal eyes. "Be like the happy bird, for one short moment staying, As joyously he sings. And fearing, dreading naught, altho'the branch is swaying, Knowing that he has wings." 86 BARCAROLE. XXXIII. BARCAROLE. (p. DUPONT.) Let us leave our oars at rest On the river's sleeping breast, While our fond fancies roam, dear. To some nook, on yonder shore. Where Fate surely has in store Some little cosy home, dear ; And, fill'd with all the thoughts this brings. We'll let the idle stream flow by. And Love shall use his fairy wings, And fan our shallop with a sigh. Let us leave, &c., &c., &c., I tremble, darling, when you bend To pluck the lilies from the wave, Tho' sweetly spray and sunshine blend Each smiling riplet is a grave. Let us leave, &c., &c., &c. , But clasp one arm around my neck, Then gather flowers, I care not how. For if our little skiff should wreck, No power could separate us now 1 Let us leave, &c., &c., &c., 87 THE BUTTERFLY. But floating down to some lone spot. We'd sleep beneath the crimson heather. And in a sweet forget-me-not Our souls would grow and twine together. Let us leave, &c., &c., &c.. XXXIV. THE BUTTERFLY. (lamartine. ) Born with the springtime, with the roses dying. Floating on Zephyr's wings thro' azure skies. Upon the flowers' half-open'd bosoms lying, Still'd with the flood of light and perfumed sighs, Shaking, in youth, the dust from dainty wings. And rising like a prayer to vaults eterne — Such life a butterfly's, and still it brings Thoughts of the soft desires that in us yearn. And still unsatisfied deflower all mortal things. Then to the gates of heaven in search of bliss return ! MY SPANISH GIRL. XXXV. MY SPANISH GIRL. (alf. de musset.) A Spanish girl, with witching eyes That wakening sparkle with delight, Cradled upon my heart she lies, And slumbers thro' the livelong night. Around me clasped one snowy arm, And like the swan's white neck it gleams. Bowing beneath the potent charm, And influence of soothing dreams. Gay cherubim around her sing 1 Hover, sweet birds, above our nest ! Gild with the shadow of your wing Her happy sleep which God has blest. For everything around is urging To drive all else but love away, — Our pleasures heedless of life's surging. Out curtains heedless of the day. Cool, sweet, my mad soul with a kiss. My parch'd lips with thy balmy breath. Oh let us rest alone like this Until the parting hour of death ; 89 MY SPANISH GIRL. Still rest, and perhaps the wandering star,* Altho' upon destruction bound, As the cow'd sages dread afar, Will leave our corner safe and sound. I prithee, with those arts of thine. Cure my wild soul — my deep emotion ; Commingle, sweet, your thoughts with mine- A streamlet with a roaring ocean. For can you ever fully know How often I have wept at life ? What deep, unutterable woe In my poor heart is always rife ? O mistress mine, as here I languish. Cover my lips with sweet caresses. And I will tell you all mine anguish, While toying with your silken tresses ; Tell all, and I will quite forget That last night, when I tried to speak. You slept, without the least regret. Your soft lips pressed upon my cheek. So cradled on my heart she lies. And slumbers thro' the livelong night, This Spanish girl with witching eyes, That wakening sparkle with delight. • The comet of 1832 appeared at this time. 90 ALL IN ALL. XXXVI. ALL IN ALL. (BAUDELAIRE.) Came the Demon on a visit To the garret where I dwell me, Thinking he could catch me tripping, Quoth he "Mortal, truly tell me, " Among all the rich enchantments Her luxuriant form discloses, Among all the charms that thrill thee. Black as ebon, red as roses, " Which is sweetest ? " To the Hateful Thus my soul spake, " 'Mong the rest, Since her charms are one perfection. Nothing in her can be best ; "Where all charms me I ignore me What it is can most delight. For she dazzles like the morning, And consoles me like the night ; "And the harmony that governs All her being is too broad, For my powerless thoughts to number. And to tell each countless chord ; 91 TO A LADY. " Music to her sighs bestowing. Fragrance to her whispers lending — O mystic metamorphosis Of various senses blending ! " XXXVII. TO A LADY. (v. HUGO.) Oh if I were but some mighty king With sword-girt vassals leal and true, love. With all the wealth that the merchants bring, With purple robes and a golden crown, With palace in some stately town, With countless ships upon countless seas, I'd willingly give up all of these For one look from you, love ! If I were a god over sea and land, I would barter all my rights I wis, dear — The glistening waves on a pearl-strewn sand. Rivers, and mountains, and waving corn. The songs and the flowers of early morn. Angels, and demons, and worlds above, And chaos, and space, and time, and love For one single kiss, dear 1 92 m /I THE OATHS XXXVIII. THE OATHS. (de la vigne.) Yes, I obey thee ! I will swear to chain Each maddening transport, and each passion- ate thrill. By all the gods I will no more profane The modesty which galls yet charms me still ! I swear by thee, O holier than the skies ! I swear to clasp thy hand no more in mine, I swear my downcast and averted eyes Shall let thee hide the liquid light in thine ! And more, I swear, when we twain are alone And thy soft lips find haven on my cheek, Tho' my strong clasping arms are round thee thrown, Shalt find, sweet, if thou wilt, mine arms, but weak ! I swear that when some frenzied deep emotion Glows, throbbing, sweeping thro' thy balmy breast. Like the long waves upon a surging ocean. My aching head shall there no more seek rest ! 93 THE MARQUESA D'AMAEGUI. And, darling, when my mad lips are on fire, No more to thy soul-breathing lips I'll cling, Till soft reproaches and regrets expire In a caressing tender murmuring I And tho' my burning brain should whirl and riot, Tho' every pulse with restless love be torn, I swear to see thee, dear, at least in quiet, I swear — she comes ! my own ! — I swear I naught have sworn I XXXIX. THE MARQUESA D'AMAEGUI. (alf. de musset. ) A SWEET brunette with neck as white And dazzling as a neck can be, Pale as a lovely autumn night, She is my joy — my soul's delight — The Marquesa d'Amaegui I For her sweet sake a thousand times I've drawn my sword in bloody fight. For her I've made a thousand rhymes, A thousand hours, when midnight chimes, I've watch'd her shadow cross the night. 94 THE MARQUESA D'AMAEGUI. She's mine, my darling, she is mhie ; Her black eyes and the love they fling, Her dainty limbs, her waist divine. The massy locks that round her twine Deep as the mantle of a king. All mine — that neck half backward drawn, That rosy mouth from which I sip her Sweet balmy kisses, fresh as morn. That rounded arm in whitest lawn. That foot in black embroider'd slipper. And when around her black eyes throw Loving looks from 'neath their lashes. The veriest saint e'er died below To touch her garment's hem, I trow. Would give his relics and his ashes. Then hey my page for ambuscades ! Come giddy pate with mischief weighty We'll rouse all Spain with serenades. And break the sleep of all alcades. From Toloso to Guadelete ! 95 UNDER THE LINDENS. XL. UNDER THE LINDENS. (p. DUPONT.) Do you forget the linden trees. Upon that balmy night in June, Where all was silent save the breeze, No witness but the half-veil'd moon, When, flinging off all vain disguise, I cast myself before your feet. And strove to read in your deep eyes If you could love me, sweet ? Your soft hand press'd my own again. And all my cruel woes seem'd ended. As by some unseen fairy chain I felt that our two lives were blended ; I never shall forget the charms I found in every thrilling tone, When, nestling, trembling in my arms. You vow'd to be my own. You vow'd to be my own for life. And on those loving words 1 fed ; But broken vows bring heartsore strife Till love itself is almost dead ; 96 22= n nsl^/j OF WHOM IS HE THINKING ? Yet to these linden trees I fly, In spite of winds and stormy weather, And wish that I had chanced to die, E'er we came here together. XLI. OF WHOM IS HE THINKING? (e. DE GIRARDIN.) Angel, with the starry eyes Of deep knowledge fraught, Tell me all the truth that lies In his hidden thought ! When the gallant vessel dashes. Onward never shrinking, Tho' the wild sea foams and lashes. Of whom is he thinking? When the white and drooping sail Flutters lazily. And the stars with beauty pale Glitter o'er the sea ; When the silvery clouds are weaving. Round the white moon gleaming. If his breast a sigh is heaving. Of whom is he dreaming ? 91 OF WHOM IS HE THINKING? When his mind for want of love Glooms as black as night. If some lonely turtle-dove Pauses in her flight, And, then if this random meeting Save from tears and shaming, And seems to hear a loving greeting, Whom then is he naming ? When the raging mad sea roars, At the midnight hour, And echo'd back from rocky shores Gloomy tempests lower ; And stout masts are straining, creaking, Greater ills dissembling, If his heart were truly speaking. For whom is he trembling ? Does he guess, or can he know He is very dear, Does he think of long ago, And of some one here ; — When the good ship comes back laden. Every tongue of home ties speaking, - When each seeks his own true maiden. Whom will he be seeking ? 98 TO ELVIRA. XLII. TO ELVIRA. (lamartine.) When thinking, dreaming, we two are alone, And your soft hands are trembling in my own. To loving bliss I leave my yearning soul. And let the happy hours unheeded roll : When in the forest glades, by whispering streams, Your soft sighs breathe their music in my ear; When I repeat the vows I murmur'd, dear, In the wild broken words of last night's dreams ; When on my trembling knees your forehead lies. And makes me happy with its sweet repose ; And when your looks are fasten'd on my eyes. Just as a bee upon a summer rose. How often then, in my poor throbbing heart, I feel some vague, some shadowy terror start ; You see me tremble, and I pale — I lie As dead, tho' on the breast of happiness, And foolish tears flow down, I know not why, — With clasping arms, and many a soft caress, You look me thro' with loving fears. Till your bright pearl-drops mingle with my tears — 99 TO ELVIRA. "Oh tell me, darling, of your hidden grief," You whisper, "Let me lull, and soothe and calm. Till my sad heart gives your sick heart relief. With kisses long as death and words as soft as balm ! " Ask me no more ; sweet, when your soft arms twine. And lingering lips, and liquid eyes confess That every feeling of j'our heart is mine, I feel as stunn'd with too great happiness : But in the bosom of each happy day, An unknown voice is whispering unknown fears. That happiness and love will fly away Upon the swift wings of the passing years. And love's own torch be quench'd with love's own bitter tears ! — That this sweet life, where all things seem To be in one long pleasure blended. Is but an idle waking dream Of happiness that should be ended ! ELEGinS. XLIII. ELEGIES.* (PARNY. ) I. THE MORROW. At last, my sweet, at last. The charming crime is o'er and past, — The sin you wish'd yet dreaded before, And tasting, now almost dread the more ; What has it left in your soul, my dear? — A little trouble, a souvenir. Astonishment at its new-born fire, A sweet regret, and a coy desire. Already the rose is blending With the lily on your cheeks. And already love is lending A soft languor to your eyes. And a liquid glance that speaks All the fulness of your sighs : And your bosom not so cold, Not so coy, sweet, as of old. Repulses, in its wayward grace, Its fairy covering of lace — * These Poems, selected from Paray's Elegies, are numbered so as to form a consecutive series. lOI ELEGIES. By a jealous mother's care Balmy bosom were you hidden, — Soon a lover's hand may dare Seek and find sweet love unchidden I And a reverie replaces All the winsome, girlish graces That made Love himself despair He could find no haven there ; But now every passing feeling, Every thought, abandon'd wholly To the languor, gently stealing. Of a charming melancholy ! Oh, let censorious fools contemn The joys that were not meant for them ! The pleasure that the gods have given. To be a foretaste perhaps of heaven ! In every mortal heart it glows, The only solace to our woes, And will, unto the end of time. Whenever youth and beauty meet, 'Twere burning shame to call this crime, No crime could ever be so sweet ! II. LINES CARVED ON AN ORANGE TREE. O ORANGE-TREE ! whose Spreading flowers Have many a time conceal'd our caresses. Receive, and keep these lines of ours, The offspring of our tendernesses ; I02 ELEGIES. And tell to those whom happy leisure May bring into this fairy glade, That if a youth could die of pleasure, I would have died beneath thy shade ! III. THE GHOST. Health is flying shatter' d, broken. Flying from my eager clutch, Failing nature gives a token That I should not trust her much ; Soon this "Comedy of Errors" In the second act must end. With the aid of all the terrors That the part of death can lend, And before you can regret me. The curtain falls, and all forget me. What goes on behind the curtain. No one knows, my dear, but still You and I may both be certain. If I can return I will. Not when gloomy darkness lowers Like these clumsy ghosts of ours, Usher'd in by sighs and groans. Skeletons of rattling bones — Eager how to please you most I will be a loving ghost, 103 ELEGIES. Seeking oft a soft disguise In the Zephyr's balmy sighs ; Softly stir the artless plume Woven in your silken hair, Till your tresses' faint perfume Mingles with the fragrant air. If your own, your favorite rose Lovelier buds than wont disclose ; If your tapers shine at night With a doubly brilliant light ; If your soft cheeks glow and flush With a sudden joyous blush ; Olten if the silken chord. Laced too tightly o'er your breast. Unclasps of its own accord ; If the sofa, where 'tis press'd. Folds you in its fond embrace. Yields its softest, cosiest place — Give me but a single smile For my care of you the while. When again I see your charms. Clasp them in my unfelt arms, — As a butterfly might press On the roses' loveliness. Then my voice will faint and die In a loving, tender sigh. Till you think you hear again. As of old, my lyre's fond strain. When it taught you, darling, part Of the echoes of my heart ; 104 ELEGIES. With the aid of love's wild schemes Every guise of pleasure taking — In the shadow of your dreams I myself will cause your waking ; And with daylight find, O shame ! That my love is all in vain — Once a ghost one's mortal frame Cannot be resumed again. IV. PLANS OF SOLITUDE. Come let us fly this shore, now grown so drear, Since love is almost kill'd with hidden fear, And half our days are lost in idle dreams ; Far out at sea the dying sunset gleams Upon a little isle, whose coral beach Is safely guarded from the trader's reach ; Here generous nature every gift bestows, And here the coolest zephyr softly blows ; While silver streams wind in and out the trees To bear soft woodland whispers to the seas ; An idle hand might tend the laden vines. The water-melons, and the scented pines, And orange-groves that bend beneath their showers Of luscious golden fruits and fragrant flowers. What could two happy lovers wish for more Than what we'd find upon this pleasant shore ? The ocean guards it round, and twice a day We'll loiter round the pleasant sea-girt way, 105 ELEGIES. Here from a father's rage should I be free, And you give every thought to love and me And all the days, with love and pleasure crown'd. In one long endless chain of joys be bound. Till I should change in every fond caress My dreams of glory for true happiness. Come let us bid these shores a long adieu. Where I am only held by love and you. See, darling, Venus shining thro' the night Eager to aid us with her friendly light ; While .^olus will lend a favoring breeze To bear us safely o'er the trackless seas ; And Love himself will steer us thro' the foam. And guide two lovers to their island home. V. BILLET. When midnight chimes Its muffled peal For bygone times, A hand will steal Right softly thro' Your latticed pane. In search of you, And love again. 1 06 ELEGIES. And prithee, mark ! A lover's eyes, E'en in the dark, Hate all disguise ; So for his sake, His happiness, He prays you take Love's sweet undress 1 VI. THE REBELLION. It is done, I break my chain ; Friends, I seek your arms again 1 Rosy lips and sparkling eyes Are not vi^orth a lifetime's sighs ; Now I blush for very shame That I ever felt their flame ; I will bask me in the pleasure Of a calm contented leisure ! Come, O Jolly God of Wine ! Fill this gloomy brain of mine With your maddest songs ; I will steep my burning soul In the rosy brimming bowl, Till I drown my wrongs. 107 ELEGIES. What said I, madman ? oh I how can I feign A merry heart amid my grief and pain ? How can I smile with eyes worn out with tears? Fling out the wine, it cannot drown my fears. O friendship 1 e'en your voice cannot control, Tho' passing sweet, the anguish of my soul ; In vain would you beguile, in vain conceal. You only probe the wound you cannot heal ; Too late your prudence and your schemes, for- sooth, O let me lull me in the lap of truth. And dream awhile of soft chimeras bright. And sing of freedom, tho' the chain clasps tight, Clutch the shade of passing fears. And speak of joy's delight While shedding bitter tears. These peaceful days will come once more. When all these passionate dreams of love are o'er. When reason wakes, and o'er the gloomy night Of errors sheds her calm and tranquil light. Time with his fleet wings, half in play. Will bear our passions and desires away. And bring our wayward wanderings to a close. Ah ! then, my friends, at last I'll break the chain, And cured of all my woes, I'll seek your sheltering arms again And there find deep repose. Then will you aid me, perhaps, when I confess My bygone hours of yearning tenderness, And when I dream again the pleasure born In my happy, rosy morn, 1 08 ELEGIES. And, while you see my eyes fiU'd with the tears Drawn from loving hopes and fears, Sigh spite myself, blush at my errors, yet E'en blushing feel that I must still regret I VII. Yes, I will shun The faithless one, Who snared and caught My every thought ; And, if I grieve, I'll hide despair, Like her deceive. And love elsewhere. Now in the prime Of rosy youth, She gibes at time, And laughs at truth. Coquette, and vain My vows, my pain She scorns outright. And false, and light She schemes and tries To please and shine. In other eyes, Than these of mine. 109 ELEGIES. Well! let her boast My fond alarms. And all the host Of all her charms ; There comes a day When all the Graces Will fly away, And on their traces E'en Love will fly, O cruel flig-ht ! Then hope, "Good-by ! " And power, "Good-night ! '' Content and free. As man can be, I'll pass her while. With many a smile, I'll have a care To mutter low. That she was fair — But long ago ! VIII. TO LOVE TO HAVE LOVED. To love is life's own soul of bliss. Still growing fuller, deeper, stronger. With every pleasure, every kiss : To have loved is to live no longer — no ELEGIES. With tears and anguish to have bought The truth we never dared have sought, That oaths are lies, that what we deem Is love, is but an acted part, That happiness is but a dream, And innocence is but an art I IX. BY THAT GAY AFFECTED AIR. By that gay affected air Others perhaps might be deceived. But my foolish heart shall dare Hold you all it once believed ; How can you, dear, cheat the eyes That have watched you, read you daily. With a little thin disguise Of wit, that fain would sparkle gayly ? Even, Sweet, your very smile Is a smile of grief and fear. With a sigh, perhaps, all the while Hidden deeply somewhere near ; And the roses on your cheek Have a languid air, and weak ; And you now neglect your charms. And my voice gives strange alarms ; III ELEGIES. You cut short each random greeting, And endeavor, all you may, To prevent our eyes from meeting, Dreading what your eyes might say. Yet these cruel griefs of thine Do but more embitter mine, Spite of Fate and human will Our fond hearts are constant still — Darling, still my throbbing heart Loves you with its wildest passion — Must we — dare we — can we part At the sorry gibes of fashion ? But, O Sweet, if every thought Of inconstancy is bought With an anguish of regret, By my love, and for my sake I conjure you, dear, to break All your vows, and to. forget All our memories of the past ; Then perhaps healing Time, at last. With new pleasures will efface Every thought and every trace Of the days that fled so fast ! I have ills enough to bear With the weight of my despair, With the coldness you must feign ; But I cannot. Sweet, sustain The thought that when our lives are parted, You, like me, are broken-hearted 1. ELEGIES. FAREWELL. It is time to check our fears, And. bring errors to an end. Time to stop these foolish tears. That Love still would have us spend. Age of folly ! Oh, how fleetly You are going, yet how sweetly ! Since all changes round us, dear, We ourselves must change at last — Happiness seems flitting near, But we cannot hold her fast ; Friendship, perhaps, will bring again What Love gives, but gives in vain. I must leave this happy shore. Where I came with Love and Venus, Very soon the waves will roar In a horrid gulf between us ; — Duty, darling, is a tie That I must not, dare not sever, Tho' the very word " Good-by " Has a meaning of "For ever ! " Maybe rumor, maybe fame Will bring whisperings of my name ; — Wafted o'er the waves and sea, Surely yours will come to me, 8 113 AN IDYLL. Happy if I hear that you Are content and happy too. Still I'll hold our past above All that future years can give, Trust me, I shall cease to love Only when I cease to live I XLIV. AN IDYLL. (a. chenier.) O Great Apollo I saving God I deep skilled In potent charms from healing herbs distill'd, O Conquering God, who slew the Python wild. Take pity on my son, my only child ! Take pity on his mother, whose dim eyes Would close for ever if her darling dies ! O Young God, aid his youth, and with thy power, Assuage the burning fevers that devour The promise of his manhood in the flower ! Ah then, if rescued from the fatal sleep At Menalus again he tend his sheep, These aged hands, these trembling hands of mine. Shall hang the fairest offerings on thy shrine. And every summer, as the years succeed, A snow-white bull shall on thy altars bleed I 114 AN IDYLL. My son, my son, give me a word, a token, Is this sad silence never to be broken ? Oh, can you leave me now, and my gray hairs Alone, alone with anguish and despairs? You wish that I should close your dying eyes, That I should lay you where your father lies ; 'Tis you who owe me these last duteous rites My tomb is waiting for your farewell tears. Tell, tell me, son, the burning grief that blights Your youth's fair future with its eager fears ! O mother, mourn not with a grief like this. Before I leave you, darling, one long kiss — A mad wild fever racks my weary brain, Throbs in each pulse, and burns in every vein. Farewell, dear mother, for each long-drawn breath Seems the last parting sigh of struggling death — Before I could not, now I cannot, speak — This downy bed — ah God, I am so weak ! — Torments me with its pressure as I lie, Turn me upon my side, O Grief, I die ! son, my only son, for my poor sake 1 prithee drink this healing draught, 'twill make Fresh life-blood in your heart — at midnight's hour With many a secret rite and mystic flower, Soften'd by my fond tears, my fond alarm, An old Thesallian witch composed the charm. 115 AN IDYLL. Thrice has your body seen the sun arise Careless of Ceres, and of sleep your eyes. Take, son, this draught, 'tis your poor mother's prayer, 'Tis she who rear'd you with a mother's care ; Clasp'd in these arms, and nestling- on this breast She sang your childish troubles into rest ; She wiled your pattering footsteps thro' the hall, With many a promised gift, and beckoning call ; She bade you love her, till your prattling voice Mimick'd the sound and made her heart rejoice. O cold pale lips, why should you madly shun To taste this healing potion ? O my son ! Would 1 could press you to these breasts of mine, And pour my life's warm essence into thine ! O Hills of Erymanthus, valleys, glades ! O fresh sonorous winds that stir the shades. And make the water tremble, till its breast Seems surging 'gainst the charm of too deep rest ; For there, my mother, there beside the lake, Comes never deep-fang'd wolf, nor venom'd snake ; — But damsels dancing in a hundred throngs — O lovely face, O pleasure-days, O songs ! No other place on earth is half so fair, O twining limbs, and flowers, and flowing hair! O dainty feet, shall I ne'er see you more ? O mother, bear me to the happy shore — Oh let me see this once before I die — The still smoke floating up the lazy sky ii6 AN IDYLL. Above the cot, as in weird shapes it twines, And that sweet maid beneath the clustering vines, Cheering her father with her maiden wiles, And sweet home converse, and svi-eet home-bred smiles. Gods ! I see her as she makes her way. With tardy footsteps, o'er the waves of hay ; 1 see her resting sadly, as she weeps Above the tomb where her loved mother sleeps. Soft yearning eyes, O will you ever shine Thro' loving tears, upon a tomb of mine? And when you near it, darling, will you wait To murmur for a moment against Fate ? 'Tis Love, my son, that racks your weary brain With his fair promise, and his bitter pain : O hapless son ! O why should all men, vv'hy But feel Love's presence, stricken down, and die ! For all on earth, and e'en the gods above Are conquer'd and are smitten down by love ! But tell me, son, what nymph, what charming maid Have you met wandering in the woody glade ? Are you not young and handsome, if wild woe Left but your eyes' soft gleam, your cheeks' rich glow ? Is it Irene with the yellow hair.? Or that proud beauty, fairest of the fair. Whom Fame has graced with sweetest, woman- liest charms. Whom wives and matrons view with wild alarms, 117 AN IDYLL. That lovely Daphnis? Mother, what would you say? That she is proud and pitiless as they Who sit on starry thrones ? Yet all who see Have loved her madly — loved in vain like me. O mother, let me die, nor let her learn With what a dying passionate love I yearn. O death ! O torment ! O sweet mother, mine ! You see me how I sicken, how I pine — Seek her before I die, perchance your years Will tell of her loved mother mourn'd with tears — O take this basket fill'd with fruits and flowers. This onyx cup won in Corinthian strife. This ivory love — the hamlet's pride and ours — Take my young goats — O take my heart — my life- Throw all beneath her feet, tell her that I With burning passion languish till I die ; Fall at the old man's feet, with tears and sighs Adjure him by the gods, the seas, the skies ; O mother, start, and if you come again. Without good tidings, you will come in vain 1 My son shall live, 'tis fond hope tells me this. She bent her down for one last lingering kiss ; On that pale brow, how wan beyond its years. But one long kiss, and then with streaming tears She went her way, with aged trembling feet. Half failing, and half struggling to be fleet. She came again with panting, bated breath — O you shall live, my son ! away, O death ! ii8 THE WATER-JET. Then fell beside his couch. The old man came And the young damsel, blushing in sweet shame. Quivering with hope and joy, the sufferer hid His trembling head beneath the coverlid. With lips that falter'd and with cheeks ablaze — Dear, you have had no joy for three long days, They tell me that a foolish girl, that I Can save you from your suffering. — Would you die? Sweet, live for me, and let our homes be one ! Your parent have a daughter — mine a son ! XLV. THE WATER-JET. (BAUDELAIRE. ) Thy deep eyes are weary, poor lover, Oh close them, oh close them awhile I Let lips and soft bosom discover Thy love in a sigh or a smile ; While sweetly the fountain at play Keeps tune to each throb of delight ; With gay merry prattle by day. With passionate sighs by the night. The fountain sheds A thousand flowers. Where Phoebus spreads His choicest dowers, 119 THE WATER-JET. As glistening tears Of hopes and fears Flow downward in their rainbow showers. Thus, sweet, when thy spirit is dying With love, and the longing of love, And rising, and soaring, and flying To sunny blue heavens above, 'Twill spread in a cloud and unclose The flood of its languor and sadness. As thunder-rains beat on the rose, To me 'twill bring perfume and gladness. The fountain sheds A thousand flowers. Where Phoebus spreads His choicest dowers. As glistening tears Of hopes and fears Flow downward in their rainbow showers. O thou whom night makes wond'rous fair I How sweet, as I lie on thy breast. To list to the sigh of despair That sobs in the waters' unrest : The night and the water sonorous. The dark trees that tremble above. And the pure moon glimmering o'er us All breathe of my passionate love. 120 A SERENADE. The fountain sheds A thousand showers. Where Phoebus spreads His choicest dowers. As glistening tears Of hopes and fears Flow downward in their rainbow showers. XLVI. A SERENADE. (p. DUPONT.) All roses are alike to me, Alike to me the myriad flowers. That May-time, in its sunny glee. Spreads on the valleys and the bowers ; But in the garland of young girls, Which glows in fragrance to the sun, I worship, and I see but one. My pearl of flowers — my flower of pearls ! Each planet and each wandering star, Dancing in circles in the skies. Lulls some young fool to dreams afar. But all are sisters in my eyes ; For all the lights that round us shine. All that a maddened brain romances. Are nothing, darling, to the glances From those soft, loving eyes of thine. 121 ALL- ALL IS LOVE. The nighting'ale may sing and die, And still on that same linden-tree, Another bird will love and sigh. Before the first has ceased to be. The sweetest songs we mortals hear In this dull struggling world below, All fail to soothe our grief, our woe. Save thy soft thrilling accents, dear. Let all the sweet flowers fade away. Let all the song-birds die of love. The cheery light forsake the day. The stars fade in the heavens above ; Rather than that my rose of girls. My star of gold, my passionate song. Should suffer half a moment's wrong — My pearl of flowers, my flower of pearls ! XLVIII. ALL— ALL IS LOVE. (v. HUGO.) To idealize our very dreams — Women were given us for this. And every power in nature seems To teach us how to love and kiss. 122 ALL-ALL IS LOVE. Great Love for girdle proudly owns The deep sea, and the azure vast — Piercing ahead we hear his tones, And in dim vistas of the past ; While all that breathes with beauty laden Pays Love its tribute for an hour ; For if God had not form'd the maiden, He surely had not form'd the flower. Lying on beauty's bosom lightly The diamond sheds its choicest hue ; Would blue sapphires sparkle brightly If blue eyes did not sparkle too ? The perfumed breezes from the south. The passion-flower, the asphodel. The bud with rosy, opening mouth Have all their tale of love to tell ; Then come, my sweet, since all is love. Whether we look that side or this. Around, beneath us, or above. Come, darling, prove it with a kiss. 123 A MORNING SERENADE. XLIX. A MORNING SERENADE. (v. HUGO. ) 'Tis dawning yet, thy door Is fast, Each flower its pearly bath is taking. The lazy rose unfolds at last To tell thee it is time for waking. I prithee, sweet, Arise and see One at thy feet Lives but for thee. All nature in its bright array Knocks at thy door in rustic fashion ; The lark is telling of the day, My heart is thrilling with its passion. I prithee, sweet, Arise and see One at thy feet Lives but for thee I 124 AN AUTUMN EVE. A woman — I can only love, An angel — I can but adore thee, Yet trust me, dear, the powers above Have made me wholly, solely for thee. I prithee, sweet. Arise and see One at thy feet Lives but for thee L. AN AUTUMN EVE. (alf. de musset. ) POET. My griefs have vanish'd like a midnight dream. All I remember of them I compare To those light mists that rise at morning's gleam. And with the dewdrops, melt into the air. MUSE. What grief was it, O Poet tell. That sear'd your heart up like a spell, And parted our fond souls in twain? Tho' deeply in your heart conceal'd Each accent and each glance reveal'd The woes I've long time mourn 'd in vain. 125 AN AUTUMN EVE. POET. It was a vulgar evil, and well known. But oftentimes when we are sick at soul, We think that we, of all the world alone, Are crush'd with misery beyond control. MUSE. It cannot be a vulgar grief That comes not from a vulgar mind, But tell me all that lurks behind. And give your aching heart relief; — Oh trust me, and confess with truth That Silence' God in very sooth, Is brother to the God of Death ; — Telling our woes we ofttimes heal The very ills that we reveal, And mourn and cure them in a breath. POET. If I must tell thee of my suffering, I scarcely know what name it ought to bear, Whether it rose from love, or was a thing Of pride and folly and my own despair. But now I will unfold my burning pain. Since we are here, alone beside the fire. If thou, dear Muse, wilt lull my racking brain. As in my happier days, with thy loved lyre. 126 AN AUTUMN EVE. MUSE. Before you tell me your harsh fate Drive cruel rancor far away. For, Poet, you must speak to-day Without a trace of love or hate ; If you remember long ago You held me soother of your heart. Then would you have me take a part. In passions which have wrought your woe? POET. So well I conquer'd all this hideous strife. That sometimes when I dream me of my ill. In those same spots I risk'd my boyhood's life, A stranger takes the place I wont to fill. Be fearless then, O Muse, and mark, that while I tell my woes, there is no fond regret ; Sweet it is to weep, but sweeter still to smile At the thoughts of woes we are able to forget. mu.se. Like a watchful mother bending O'er the cradle of her son, So I rest, while you are blending Future hopes with deeds misdone. Speak, O Poet, and my lyre Shall every trembling accent fire, And lull you with its wonted lays, 127 AN AUTUMN EVE. Till, in a flood of silver light. Like some vision gay and bright. Fades all the gloom of bygone days. POET. Loved nights of toil, of darling solitude, O nights of toil when life sped fast — To my old study, in my wonted mood. Thank God I I have come back at last Tho' oft deserted, how I love each wall — Each book upon the dusty shelves. Remember, Muse, how it was all in all, A universe for our two selves I When to the careless scofiBng world I told The burning songs I heard from you ; — Here, in my loved retreat, let me unfold The cruel wrongs a girl could do — A girl, the loveliest of all around me. Breathing of all things save disaster. And so I loved the yoke that bound me Like a serf unto his master ; A yoke detested, for by that my youth Grew older than the world can guess, Yet near my mistress' charms I had in sooth Some sunny days of happiness ; Some days when violet perfumes fill'd the air. Some nights upon the silver sands ; Little I reck'd that the wan spectre Care Gibed at me with his bony hands. 128 AN AUTUMN EVE. I see her still, beneath the bashful moon, Her slim waist trembling in my arms ; — Speak not of it ; I did not guess how soon Cruel Fate would rob me of her charms, Perchance the gods were sicken'd at the sight Of so much mortal happiness. And rain'd upon me, in their fell despite. An after-life of fierce distress. MUSE. The memory of a bygone spell Has flown upwards in your thought. On the scar that it has wrought ; Wherefore shouldst thou fear to dwell ? Tell thy tale without a smart, And renew thy happy days ; If Fortune broke a trusting heart, Take at least a nobler part. And laugh at youthful folly's ways ! POET. Nay, at my misery rather let me laugh. And let me tell thee. Muse, without one sob. What bitter draughts of half-dream'd dreams I quaff. Since I aroused from passion's burning throb. It was, I mind me, a drear winter night. Sad and so cold, unlike a night like this, The murmur of the breeze now breathing light, Now pouring down the whole street with a hiss ; 9 129 AN AUTUMN EVE. And at my window waiting her I stay'd, Hanging upon each footfall in the dark, . When all at once I felt my soul betray'd. And my whole body froze up stiff and stark ; Still was the busy city's noisy roar. And naught but torch-lit shadows flitted by, The very wind, thro' the half-open 'd door, Breath'd like a sicken'd mortal's dreary sigh, And found a hollow echo in my breast ; And city clocks rang out their mocking chimes Of hours that told of eager sleepless rest. And swift love dalliance of other times : She came not, and with throbbing, dizzy head, And eager brows, press'd 'gainst the window pane I cannot tell what burning words I said, Or what wild thoughts came crashing thro' my brain ; I only loved her, but to live a day Without her seem'd a torture worse than death, I — who was envious of the soft wind's play, Because it robb'd me of her balmy breath — /felt as tho' I were a thing accurst. And mad with too much loving, that I could Couple, for one short moment, all that's worst Of loathsome crime to her sweet woman- hood ; Then with a maddening effort of the will I rent the veil, and found truth grim and stark, 130 AN AUTUMN EVE. Then almost wish'd that I had left it still, And gone on loving blindly in the dark. For then I saw, thro' all their love disguise, The snaring beauties that had wrought my woe. And viewed her thralling charms with other eyes, Than those I gazed with half a day ago : And day dawn'd wearily, for I had stole Upon the balcony, and tried to freeze With cold, cold limbs the fever of my soul, Till my heart's blood seem'd ebbing to the lees ; Now all at once I hear the fall of feet, Making the dreary silence still more drear. Until my eye can pierce the gloomy street. To see her come, and feel that she is here. What would'st thou, perfidious wretch, reply ? Where has thou been ? in whose bed hast thou slept .'' — Thou, and thy charms, and every charm a lie. Whilst I have waited for thee, watch'd and wept? Art thou invested by some hideous drouth Of loathsome love, and lust in every vein. That thou couldst kiss me with thy reeking mouth. And twine me in thy wearied arms again ? Begone, thou spectre of my mistress' truth ! Affrighted to thy tomb by morning's gleam, Let me at least forget my poison'd youth. And, when I think of thee, believe I dream ! 131 AN AUTUMN EVE. MUSE. Calm your aching soul, I pray. Of thoughts fraught with such dreams to you, Drive these memories far away. Or else your wound will bleed anew ; A wound like this is very deep. No misery can e'er efface it, Rise boldly to the ill you weep, And sternly from your memory chase it. Until all thought of her is o'er, Of her, whose name I'll breathe no more. POET. Shame to thee, who taught me first The world of woe that lies in treason ! Who render'd all my life accurst. To please thy fancy for a season ! Shame to thee ! — thy cruel eyes Play'd their hateful task too well. Raising my soul unto the skies, To dash it back again to hell ! — It was thy face, it was thy smile. And those loving, luring glances. That taught my boyhood to revile All a fond boyhood's wild romances I It was thy charms, thy youthful years. That turn'd my happy youth to pain. And made me doubt the force of tears, Because I wept, and wept in vain ! 132 AN AUTUMN EVE. Shame to thee, for I was still As guileless as a babe unborn ; My heart, beneath thy mystic thrill, Open'd like some ripe bud at dawn 1 And if this simple guileless heart Were ready for the touch of woe, It had been, perhaps, the better part, Unsear'd, unscath'd, to let it go ! Shame to thee ! Of all my grief Thou wert the foster-nurse — nay, mother, 'Tis vainly now I seek relief. And vainly try my tears to smother ! But tears will flow, thou mayst be sure. As long as there are tears to stream, For such a wound there is no cure. For such a g^ief no dawning's gleam ; Still, in this flood of passionate tears, I'll wash away all thought of thee, And pray, that in the coming years. All memory of thee cease to be ! Cease, Poet, cease, when near some faithless one, For a short day thy fond illusion last. Do not outrage that day when it is done, If you would still be loved, respect the past ; And if for human weakness 'tis too great To pardon all the burnings of regret. Oh spare thyself at least the scourge of hate, Tho' thou canst not forgive, thou canst forget. ^33 AN AUTUMN EVE. The dead are sleeping in the earth's Still womb. So stifled memories sleep in ev'ry breast. For the heart's reliques have a hallow'd tomb. And no rude hand should dare to mar their rest ; These broken dreams, these wither'd hopes were sent To mould true men to living a true life. Never a chastening blow, but what is meant To bring sweet calm and peace on weary strife. For man is an apprentice, and deep grief A harsh task-master unto all below. And till his time be served, tho' hard 'tis brief. No man can know himself as he should know. 'Tis a harsh law, but old as time and thought, It ever has been, and shall ever be. That all things at this sad price must be bought. That man must be baptized in misery ! The sweet green blades would have no golden, ears, Without the morning dew, nor buds their flowers, So life itself is fed, and nursed by tears. Life's path is strew'd with roses steep'd in showers, O surely now thou art weaned from thy madness, For thou art young, and welcom'd every- where, Of those bright joys that change life into gladness Fate hasrain'd down upon thee, and to spare : 134 AN AUTUMN EVE. And when, at eve, beneath the linden trees. Thou drink'st with some old friend to times gone by. Would the mere thought of such sweet mem'ries please Had they been purchased at a price less high ? Couldst thou love flowers, and the wind's soft glee. And Petrarch's sonnets, and the bird's wild strain. Nature and Shakespeare, art and poesy, Unless they told thee of some former pain ? The stars' vast harmony, the night's still quiet. When breezes whisper and the river flows. Would tell thee naught unless some feverish riot Had made thee yearn for infinite repose. Now that thou hast a mistress fair as truth. When she embrace thee for a last good-night. Do not the distant memories of thy youth Make soft smiles still more soft, bright eyes more bright ? Unmindful of the past, when ye twain dare Walk the same woodlands, the same silver sands. Now never more shall the wan spectre Care Point out the road with bony, gibing hands. Now once again beneath the bashful moon Thy darling clasps thee in her loving arms. And fond hearts beat to the same loving tune. More true, perhaps, than the old, with all the old one's charms. 135 AN AUTUMN EVE. Why then complain while hope immortal springs, From the mere glance of cold misfortune's gaze? And why detest the thought your boyhood brings, When misery did but lead to better days ? O Poet, pity rather her who caused Thy weary nights, thy sobbings of distress. Who chased the phantom pleasure, and who paused 'Mid suffering to dream of happiness : Her lot was painful, perhaps she loved thee, while The tool of Fate, she broke thy trusting heart, And womanlike, perchance, her parting smile But did conceal the grief she felt to part. Oh, pity her — her love was like a dream, She dealt a blow, but could not stay its force. Amid thy tears things are not what they seem. And love, true love remains, when all has run its course I POET. Hate is impious, as you say. With a cold shudder should one start When this vile reptile gnaws his way. And coils himself about one's heart, Then listen to me goddess mine. Be witness of my oaths divine I 136 AN AUTUMN EVE. By my mistress' soft blue eyes ; By the deep azure of the skies ; And by that brilliant sparkling flame. That from great Venus takes its name, Glittering like some trembling pearl On the horizon's starry whirl ; By Nature's myriad worlds above. And by the great Creator's love ; By that soft, pure and tranquil light That guides the traveller thro' the night. By grass and turf, and flowers and thyme. And forests rich with summer time ; By life and all its smiles and tears. The harvest, and the fruit of years ; — By all these oaths I firmly vow This mad love shall no longer last. From my life's volume mark me, now. Tear out this sad page of the past 1 And thou, who wished that fond regret Should gnaw my heart out while I live. Learn that when once I can forget. In that same moment I forgive. I do forgive, and now, my dear. Let's break the chain that bound us two, And with a last, a parting tear, Receive a parting, last adieu ! And now come in a merry throng. Joyous glees and roundelays I Ah, sing me. Muse, some loving song, Like those sweet songs of other days. 137 THE ROSES OF FORGETFULNESS. Already the sweet flowers and grass Echo the footsteps of the dawn, Tji'^ake my new love, and as you pass Gather the pearl-strewn flowers of mom ; All nature's blooming everywhere Now that the gloomy hours have run. So let us be reborn with her, In the first glances of the sun I LI. THE ROSES OF FORGETFULNESS. (laucussade, ) There is a strangely soothing plant among the heart's gay flowers, That blossoms in the chilly wind, when adverse fortune lowers ; When the long cherish'd dreams of life's young spring are fled, When all the other buds are drooping in the sear'd leaf, and dead ; It is the last, the farewell flower that man may pluck and caress. And this same flower we call the rose of deep forgetfulness. 138 THE ROSES OF FORGETFULNESS. For our poor, aching hearts there are black fune- real roses, Upon their sad and wither'd leaves our life's chief charm reposes ; For every sunny dream there gapes some black untimely tomb. And every answered wish is drown'd in deep oblivious gloom ; But while the other sweet flowers die, and fade, oh, ne'ertheless Daily bloom these scentless roses of deep forget- fulness. Beacons of our young life's dawning, and wild glee of our noon. Gay lilac blossoms bathing in the pure light of the moon. Virgin lilies trembling — hiding for very maiden shame. Giving promises of summers that never, never came, O April flowers, with all your sweets, you are less true, confess. Than your sister plants the roses of deep forget- fulness. Winter's first icy blast has rack'd our aching hearts with pain, Gone all hope is with the summer, but will never come again ; 139 AN AFTERNOON SONG. And our hearts, instead of singing paeans in true love's praise, Moan the bitterness of life and the weariness of days; All is dead silence till the voice of sorrow bids us press To our lips and brows the roses of deep forget- fulness I Well, we have had a merry fling, so let us not repine. And altho' the dregs are bitter, right luscious was the wine ; Why for puny deeds like ours should we idly pine and fret ? Can we recall one moment's wrong with half a life's regret ? So let us take what fate has sent, and gayly gladly bless The sweet influences of the roses of deep forget- ful n ess I LII. AN AFTERNOON SONG. (BAUDELAIRE.) Little witch, with witching lashes, Falling over witching eyes, Tho' your glances scarcely tell me Of an angel's chastest sighs — 140 AN AFTERNOON SONG. I adore thee, in my passion, Careless, thoughtless girl of mine, With the priest's wild mad devotion For his idol and his shrine. Scents from desert, and from forest Have embalm'd your wide-flung tresses. And your head has all the movements Of all secret, guessless guesses. From your fiesh the sweet faint odor, Like some sacred incensed fume. Rises till you charm like midnight. Nymph of warmth and shady gloom I All the strongest, wildest philtres Are not worth your idle graces. E'en dead corpses would revive them Underneath your wild embraces. E'en the cushions throb with pleasure, As your lazy form discloses All the soft, voluptuous beauty Of a thousand languid poses. Sometimes to appease the passion Of love's torments, love's delights. You would flood my lips with kisses, Tease my lips with pearly bites ; 141 CAMILLE. And then tear my soul out, darling, With a peal of mocking laughter. Till, repentant, soft eyes steep them In mine own a moment after. Underneath your satin slippers Have I thrown my love, my hate, Have I flung my joy, my manhood, Flung my genius and my fate ! Can you heal my soul, my darling, Fou all color, warmth, and light ? Can you, sweet, dispel the darkness Of my drear, Siberian night ? LIII. CAMILLE. (andre chenier.) Oh why should you reproach my easeful days 1 Why goad me on to grasp at glory's bays ? What would you of me ? I am happy, still You'd snatch away my all, my love Camille, My peaceful leisure, and my flitting dreams — Have I, half slumbering by these shady streams, E'er thought, e'er dreamt, of glory's brilliant name ? — If this be shame I glory in my shame — 142 CAMILLE. Why then recall me to I know not what Vain projects of my youth long since forgot I Why tell me that Achilles' absent post Betray'd his vessels to the Trojan host ; That, tho' Columbus loved the North the best, Loving her still he led us to the West ? Yet long ago, when burning youth was young, In many a woody glade my thoughts I sung ; Full of vast objects, drunk with warrior's songs Breathing of bloody bays, and battling throngs. Covering myself with steel, with eyes afire, To combats I attuned my sounding lyre ; Mad with audacious thoughts of high emprise, I left the earth and flew towards the skies, Till nearing Cupid's torch, I lighted there — Idalia's by-paths were so passing fair — There Venus told me all her softest strains. And rank'd me chief 'mong all who wore her chains. If, sometimes now, obedient to your will. Or lured by vagrant fancy, I would still The lofty deeds of " Plutarch's Men" rehearse In spirit-stirring, generous sounding verse ; My voice, accustomed to voluptuous charms. Refuses, struggles, flies in wild alarms ; My hand tormented, tries in vain to clasp The labor'd beauties flitting from its grasp ; But if soon wearied, my duU'd spirit flies Again to those poor nothings you despise. If I sing Camille's charms, my loving song In glowing verse flows trippingly along ; 143 CAMILLE. Verses to chant her phrase around me spring, In clustering crowds to heaven and earth they cling ; All things for her has verses, for they seem To sparkle in each wavelet on the stream ; They take the bird's sweet voice, and brilliant hue. They hide in flower-buds, rich with pearly hue ; Her breast has all the peaches' ripest bloom. Her mouth the rose's smile, and rare perfume ; The bee, tho' flitting from that flower to this. Bears no such honey as her balmy kiss. All nature brings a poem within my reach, Sweet as her breath, melodious as her speech ; Whate'er she does or says, a word, a look. Would fill the pages of a mighty book. And if from me her glances steal a smile From her my songs a thousand smiles beguile ; The muslin kerchief, that would fain conceal. In filmy folds, the charms it must reveal. Demands a song, a burning song of mine ; Sometimes, adorn'd with luxury divine. My glowing lyre will raise her to the sky And rob poor Juno of her majesty ; — Such is her beauty, mantling cheeks aglow. Locks black as jet, and bosom pure as snow ; If, cover'd with her long hair and sweet shame. She bares her veilless beauty to my flame. Then would I sing, in all a Menade's strength, Of Paphian combats, all an Iliad's length ; And if my projects, blushing for the theft From rare old Homer's lyre, have almost left 144 CAIN AND ABEL. His battling chords, they steal, devoid of shame, All that is penn'd to lovely Helen's fame ; Oh happy he who breathes in every line Seductive wishes, like these songs of mine ! Whose glowing muses guide him on his lyre. In every note he sings, to love's desire ? 'Twas last night, when I lay at Camille's feet, I heard her soft lips lovingly repeat, , In pride for me, and for herself in shame, A song, in which I sang my darling's fame. If these sweet lips had breathed in Virgil's days. He would have sang of n aught but Camille's praise; And saved poor Dido from her wild desire For JEneas' fickle love, and from the funeral pyre ; LIV. CAIN AND ABEL. (BAUDELAIRE.) Race of Abel, sleep, and eat, God will find thy pleasure sweet. Race of Cain, let hunger's pangs Gnaw thee with its fiercest fangs. Race of Abel, thy gifts rise Graceful offerings to the skies. ID 145 CAIN AND ABEL. Race of Cain, thy torments last Long as life and death hold fast. Race of Abel, warm thy mirth By thy patriarchal hearth. Race of Cain, within thy cave. Shivering, wish it were thy grave. Race of Abel, love and breed, God will make thine offspring speed. Race of Cain, crush down thy brood. Who will give thy children food ? Race of Abel, fill the land Numerous as the ocean's sand. Race of Cain, fade off and die, Quite annull'd by misery. 146 A SAD MADRIGAL. LV. A SAD MADRIGAL. (BAUDELAIRE. ) What matter if you be fair ? Be wise, and be sad, for tears Can lend a charm to your eyes ; As rain-clouds gladden the skies. As the future gleams with fears. I love you best when delight From your gloomy brow flies past, When your day is plunged in night. And your present vanish'd quite. In the dreary dreams of the past. I love you when your black eyes shed Water soft as blood, and warm When your loving moods are dead. When agony, anguish, dread, Outburst like a tropic storm. I breathe, O pleasure divine, A hymn profound and deep. Every sobbing sigh of thine Makes me think your heart's ashine With the glistening pearls you weep. 147 DEATH. LVI. DEATH. (BAUDELAIRE.) I. THE lover's death. We will have voluptuous couches, full of subtle, faint, perfume, We will have soft clasping cushions, deep and silent as the tomb ; Strange flowers on the window ledges, shutting out the azure skies, Tingeing all the sunlight's languor with a thou- sand crimson dyes. Using, slowly, as if grudging, their consuming, final heat. Our two hearts will meet together, as two mighty flames might meet, And reflect their double splendor, and their double streams of light. In your soul and mine, my darling, as on mirrors burnish'd bright. On an evening, rosy tinted, and with mystic blue half-dark. Our two hearts will throb together, and exchange their dying spark, 148 DEATH. Like a long-drawn sighing, sobbing, overladen with "farewells." Later on will come an angel, floating thro' the open door. Joyful in his task of mercy, mighty with death- conquering spells. To revive the tarnish'd mirrors, and the shatter'd flames once more I II. THE pauper's death. O Death, the great Consoler. 'Tis he who makes us live. He is the aim of life, there is no hope beside ; Elixir-like he rises in our poor brains to give Strength, and the will to march, until the even- tide. Death, the flashing Beacon, on which we madly look, Longingly, thro' the snow, and thro' the icy blast, Death the famous hostel, we read of in the Book, Where we may eat and drink, and seat our- selves at last. Death the Angel, holding in his mesmeric fingers Sleep, and the gift of dreams, where joy and beauty lingers, 149 DEATH. A warm bed for the weary — a cold tomb for the wise; Death the glory of God — Gamer of coin untold. Home to the homeless wretch — the pauper's purse of gold. Death the wond'rous portal, tmfolding wond'rous skies 1 in. THE END OF THE DAY. Lire is writhing 'neath the gleams Of the waning, flickering light. Howling forth incestuous screams. Until soft voluptuous night Clasp the earth and hold it fast Art thou hungry, night will fill thee ; Art thou weary, night will still thee. And the poet says " at last ! " " Body with thy aching bones, Spirit weary with thy groans, I will comfort thee outright, "I will lay me on my back, I will wrap me in the black Curtains of refreshing night 1 " 150 TO JESSY. LVII. TO JESSY. (th. gautier.) You are so fair, that from your eyes A single passing gleam — A mocking look of coy surprise. Would raise a poet to the skies In some romantic dream. With simple dainty wiles that speak A spirit sweetly maiden. And little dimpled smiles that seek A haven on your lips and cheek With rosy blushes laden ; A tiny foot, a hand snow-white. With slender tapering fingers ; Curls black and balmy as the night, A breath like haytime's fresh delight, A voice where music lingers ; — You have all earthly charms, again I swear 't by all above you, And yet your mind, dear, is so vain. Your little pate so void of brain, One would not dare to love you. 151 SOLITUDE. LVIII. SOLITUDE. (th. gautier.) In a kiss the river tells To the banks its fears ; To console the lorn blue-bells Rosy dawn has tears ; Winds of evening breathe their strains To the cypress glades ; And the turtle coos his pains To the gloomy shades. On the waves where all reposes Tin e'en sorrows fail. The pale languid moon discloses Why she is so pale. Saint Sophia, thy white dome Speaks to deep blue skies. And the blue sky dreams of home Far from our weak eyes. Tomb or tree, or rock or rill. Rose or turtle-dove. All below has something still To hear — to breathe of love ; 152 SULTAN MAHMOUD. But I am alone — alone. Not a voice replies, Nothing: but the sweeping moan Of the dark gulfs sighs I LIX. SULTAN MAHMOUD. (th. gautier.) In my harem, like a bouquet Of exotic flowers Down its golden vase o'erflowing In scent-laden showers. In my harem group together All the vaguest fancies Of an opium eater's languid, Wearied-out romances. These soulless forms, these broken lives, Can please one in their dreary fashion, Alas ! six hundred girls and wives. And ne'er a one for love's deep passion 1 The young doe and the antelope. All from every clime — Europe, Africa, and Asia, Yield me of their prime ; 153 SULTAN MAHMOUD. Orange cheeks, and cheeks of roses, Eyes of black and blue, All that's strangest, all that's charming, Seems my regal due. These soulless forms, these broken lives. Can please me in their dreary fashion, Alas ! six hundred girls and wives, And ne'er a one for love's deep passion ! Neither Grecian virgin chisell'd. As of stone, yet real ; Nor the listless negress dreaming Of her black ideal ; Nor the French girl, half triumphant In her mocking part ; Nor the plaintive English damsel Ever viron my heart. These soulless forms, these broken lives. Can please me in their dreary fashion, Alas ! six hundred girls and wives. And ne'er a one for love's deep passion ! 154 SERENADE. SERENADE. (th. gautier. ) Sweet, as you bend from the window-sill 'Tis but a little to clasp your charms. How little, and yet, do all I will, I cannot attain your outstretch'd arms. Tho' your duenna has door ajar Throw me a collar, a ribbon of gold. Or from the strings of your sweet guitar Weave me a ladder — or, darling, hold — Take out your flowers, let down your hair, Hang over me, dear, your long black tresses, A torrent of jet whose soft waves dare To clasp your feet in their wild caresses. O ladder sublime ! divinely quaint ! 'Tis but a touch, and I'll lightly fly, 'Mid scented odor, and perfume faint, And tho' not an angel reach the sky ! 155 THE SPECTRE OF THE ROSE. LXI. TO THE BUTTERFLIES. (th. gautier.) GAY butterflies, color of snow, Flitting merrily over the hollow. If you lend me your wings I will go By the blue airy pathway you follow. Sweet, where all joys and all beauties dwell, If the gay butterflies would but try me. Cannot your wonderful deep eyes tell As to whither away I would hie me ; Without taking one kiss from the rose. Over valleys and forests that lie there, 1 would go to your lips that half close, O flower of my soul ! and would die there I LXII. THE SPECTRE OF THE ROSE. (th. gautier.) Oh raise your deep-fringed lids that close To wrap you in some sweet dream's thrall, I am the spectre of the rose You wore but last night at the ball ; 156 SPRINGTIME AND AUTUMN. You pluck'd me warm, but still empearl'd With Eve's soft tear-drops, silvery white. And 'mid the dazzling, brilliant world You wore me proudly all the night O you, thro' whose light wish I died, I will arouse me from the dead, And all night long will flit and glide About your curtains and your bed ; Still, tho' I haunt your dainty room, For me let not a mass be given. My soul is in this faint perfume. And I have reach'd the roses' heaven. Yet, ere I drew my dying breath, All envied me a lot so brave. For tho' I felt the pangs of death, I had your bosom for a grave ; And on the marble, as I lay, A bard wrote with a loving kiss — "Here lies a rose, and monarchs may Be jealous of an end like this." LXIII. SPRINGTIME AND AUTUMN. (bERAN GER. ) Two seasons rule this world of ours. To those who lead a life like mine ; We owe to springtime all the flowers, To autumn every cheering wine. 157 SPRINGTIME AND AUTUMN. The days grow long, our hearts beat high, The days grow short, the ripe grapes swell, In springtime, O Bacchus, good-bye I In autumn, O Cupid, farewell 1 'Twere doubtless better if one could Clasp both joys with a single clutch ; But for my health I fear I should Drink far too hard, and.love too much ; So Wisdom, whispering with a sigh. Bids me devise a bounded spell ; In springtime, O Bacchus, good-bye ! In autumn, O Cupid, farewell I It was In May I saw Rosette, And with a wond'rous patience bore Each fancy of the sly coquette Until her six months' reign was o'er ; For, fearing lest her bard should die, October came before I fell ; In springtime, O Bacchus, good-bye I In autumn, O Cupid, farewell I I take, I leave, retake Adele Without a thought of care or pain ; Still one day, sorrowful and pale. She vow'd she soon would come again ; But then I humm'd as she pass'd nigh The year must have its bounded spell : In springtime, O Bacchus, good-bye ! In autumn, O Cupid, farewell 1 158 HOW FAIR SHE IS. But ah I a lovely girl at last Has changed my pleasure at her will ; Like Cupid, she can hold me fast ; Like Bacchus, she can keep me still ; And, darling, if she chose to try I'd let her break my rule and spell ; In spring, 'twill be, Bacchus, good-bye t In autumn, O Bacchus, tarewell 1 LL HOW FAIR SHE IS. (beranger.) Ye gods F she is so fair, so sweet, I've cast my life beneath her feet ; In her deep, melancholy eyes All love's raptured languor lies ; Gentle zephyrs, blowing round her, With their choicest sweets have crown 'd her ; She's fair as morning's rosy light. Whilst I am gloomy as the night. Ye gods I she is so fair, so sweet, I've cast my life beneath her feet-; The tinge upon her golden hair Gleams as tho' sunset loiter'd there; Clever she is in all but this. She scarcely knows how fair she is ; She's fair as morning's rosy light. Whilst I am gloomy as the night. 159 THE OLD FLAG. Ye gods ! slie is so fair, so sweet, I've cast my life beneath her feet ; Tho' love had been my fondest dream. And woman's charms my favorite theme, Before she brighten 'd up my heart Love fled away, or kept apart ; She's fair as morning's rosy light Whilst I am gloomy as the night. Ye gods ! she is so fair, so sweet, I've cast my life beneath her feet — A life of barely thirty years. And yet how old with doubts and fears. Until with love, and hope, and truth, She seem'd to bring me back my youth ; For she was fair as morning's light. Whilst I was gloomy as the night LXV, THE OLD FLAG. (beranger. ) Trusty comrades, old and hoary. You are round me not in vain. Wine will bring us back our story. Memory will fire each brain ; Proud of all our fame and glory, See our banner once again 1 Up, my comrades, for we must Shake away its mouldering dust ! 1 60 THE OLD FLAG. It is hidden with me here, Where I lie half-starv'd and batter'd, I, who, with no thought of fear, Bore it till its silk was tatter'd — Over Europe far and near, — Till I too was worn and shatter'd. Up, my comrades, for we must Shake away its mouldering dust 1 This old flag has paid to France All the blood that it has cost it ; Children trifled with its lance Till e'en liberty was lost it ; Bravely 'twill again advance When the tyrant once has cross'd it ; Up, my comrades, for we must Shake away its mouldering dust 1 Wearied out with fame and sorrow, On some distant battle-field. Lies its eagle — we must borrow France's Cock to deck our shield ; He shall lead us forth to-morrow. Till our country's woes are heal'd. Up, my comrades, for we must Shake away its mouldering dust ! Tired with all the fields it won us It brought liberty and peace ; Till, old soldiers, we could sun us In our vineyards' rich increase ; II i6i THE GRAY-HAIRED DAME. Think of all the flag has done us, Think, and bid our tyrants cease I Up, my comrades, for we must Shake away its mouldering dust ! There above my arms 'tis lying. Spread it out a moment here. Let me use thy folds for drying An old soldier's burning tear ; When a warrior's eyes are crying Heaven perforce shall stoop to hear ; Comrades, up, for heaven must Let us shake away its dust ! Lxvn. THE GRAY-HAIR'D DAME. (beranger. ) O Mistress mine I you must grow old, And I must leave you here alone ; Relentless time has doubly told The happy days I thought my own ; Survive me, and old age, tho' dire. Will prove my lessons not in vain ; A gray-hair'd dame, beside your fire. Repeat your lover's songs again. When youthful eyes will fondly gaze Upon your time-worn, wrinkled brow. To trace the charms of other days, And wonder whom you mourn for now, 162 THE GRAY-HAIRED DAME. Oh paint my joy, my fond desire, Jk'Iy eager love, my jealous pain ; A gray-hair'd dame, beside your fire. Repeat your lover's songs again. And they will ask if I loved jfou, And you will say, " He loved me ever," Or, " Did he prove unkind, untrue ? " And you will proudly answer " Never. "- O tell them that my loving lyre Was always constant in its strain ; A gray-hair'd dame, beside your fire, Repeat your lover's songs again. O you I who wept at France's story, Sing the new race the burning songs In which I breathed of hope and glory. To soothe her for her bitter wrongs ; Tell them the banners of their sire Swept twenty harvests off the plain ; A gray-hair'd dame, beside your fire. Repeat your lover's songs again. And, darling, if my poor renown Can wile away a sigh, a tear, And if with Christmas leaves you crown My portrait for the new-boni year. Gaze upwards for a moment higher. There nothing more can part us twain ; A gray-hair'd dame, beside your fire, Repeat your lover's songs again. 163 OLD AGE. LXVIII. OLD AGE. (beranger. ) Time is pressing on us now, Sowing wrinkles on each brow ; If we must grow old in sooth, Keep we all we can of youth ; But each step we take seems bringing Flowers in wild profusion springing. More than we can hope to hold, Friends, this is not growing old. Sparkling juice and merry song Gayly chase the hours along ; Guests around our table may Whisper that our locks are gray. What care we if rosy wine Tells us of a youth divine. If our hearts are never cold ; Friends, this is not growing old. Does a laughing, roguish eye. Snare us, as in days gone by. Hinting, in a saucy fashion. Age is scarcely meant for passion — 164 ROUNDELAY. Less we love the less we spend, Of a mistress make a friend, Careless if she smile or scold ; Friends, this is not growing old. If in spite of merry cheer Age should try to catch us here, Let us boldly, bravely meet him. All together we must greet him ; So by our fireside, whenever Old age comes, we'll all together Jeer him back into the cold ; Friends, this is not growing old. LXIX. ROUNDELAY. (SAINTE-BEUVE. ) O SWEET autumn breezes, blow cool for my lover 1 O vast forest, open your close-woven cover ! Beneath the tall trees where all sorrow is sleep- in*'" She slumbers o'erburden'd with grieving and weeping. Your depths are a heaven for woes of the sweet- est ; Your boughs are a shelter for sorrows the fleetest; 165 "OH TAKE AWAY." Diana herself, and her troop of chaste maids, Found exile a pleasure beneath your green shades ; With the torchlit night, and the roseate morn. And the hurrying stag, and the echoing horn, Oh, shelter her tenderly, wide-spreading trees Waft, waft her a sigh of voluptuous ease, O sweet autumn breeze ! Yet the soul of my life breathes never a sigh. But mounts her proud steed with a gay ringing cry; O'er rocks and o'er deserts, as fleet as the wind. Till I and the forest fade out of her mind ; But if the fresh odor of turf and of trees Make an amazon queen, my sweetest, of thee. Roar out upon her and blow softly on me, O sweet autumn breeze I LXX. "OH TAKE AWAY," (SAINTE-BEUVE.) Oh take away these graces half divine. Take all that moves and binds this heart of mine. Take all my foes, kind heaven, take them all ; — These trysts, at once my joys and my alarms. That kill me with the sweetness of their thrall I i66 FIRST LOVE. LXXI. FIRST LOVE. (SAINTE-BEUVE. ) Spring, what would you have of me ? why, why this happy smile, These perfume-laden flowers, these blossoms in your hair ? Why does the April sun caress your beauties, while The April zephyrs breathe in many a passionate air? O Spring, fair as you are, you do but chill my youth ; You speak to my sad heart of dreams long since gone by ; And with your laughing promise and your fair- seeming truth Bring for my happy days a weary long-drawn sigh. One single being fill'd the whole wide world for me ; I drew my dreams, my life, my future from her eyes ; Her voice, how pure and calm in its low harmony. Told me of brighter days to dawn 'neath brighter skies. 167 nRST LOVE. Ah 1 how I loved her I loved in silence deep as death. And endless as the grave, yet ever loved the same ; How could I soil her lips with my mad, burning breath. Or touch her virgin brow all mantled with sweet shame. And yet sometimes I hoped, for kind as she was fair. She many a time consoled me for my dreary fate ; One day she blush'd with joy to find me standing there. And more than once she chided when I was somewhat late. And many a time amid her choice of flower or dress She sought my madden'd glance with some sweet artless word, She seem'd to pride herself on her rich loveliness. And chose the flower or robe that I too had preferr'd. Or, if a painter's skill, an artist's cunning brush Upon an ivory surface her charms had chanced to trace ; Her youth's sweet flower, her cheeks' rich, rosy blush, And liquid, soft deep eyes that lighten'd all her face; i68 FIRST LOVE. Ah, then she loved to point, with merry girlish glee. Upon her imaged self, and keep me by her side ; Half doubtful other charms, half confident in me, And listen to the praises that my poor heart replied. One night I found her there, with cheeks all pale and cold. And dreary eyes half-closed, whilst drooping lashes sought To hide the bursting tears in their transparent fold. Whilst her sad dreary smile betray'd a dreary thought. And soon she sang — it was a song of long fare- well, A plaintive, deep adieu, with grief o'erburdened. And each note seem'd to weep melodious tears that fell On my poor aching heart, till love itself was dead. The morrow and another received her plighted vows ; Thy mother's wish, my darling, was law of life to thee ; O holy, tender daughter, resign 'd and faithful spouse. Be happy, dear, for him — be happy without me 1 169 L' ENVOI TO FANNY. But I can still recall thy witching loveliness ; Oh ! let the mystic thrill of these sweet memories Descend sometimes amidst my hours of fierce distress, Like a pure ray of light — an angel from the skies I I can invoke thee, Sweet, in days of grief and pain. Just as a sister's voice might call a long lost brother ; I still can feel thy presence, thy soothing aid again. As some poor orphan feels the presence of his mother. LXXII. L'ENVOI TO FANNY, (after sainte-beuve. ) Oh let me I when my mind is wholly A-wearied of the city's roar. When hope and fear and melancholy Bid my poor jaded heart outpour, — Oh let me breathe in undertone A song from some sweet Gallic singer- Glean where a mighty mind has sown. Till in these poor songs of my own Some echoes of his sweetness linger ; 170 L'ENVOI TO FANNY. Not word by word, and line by line, In foolish hope to emulate him ; But thoughts of his, and thoughts of mine, — No otherwise could I translate him. Still, planting in this soil of ours What I would fondly tend and cherish, I tremble lest the fragile flowers Should wither in my touch, and perish ; Yet is the rich, abundant tree So fill'd with beauty, and so living, 'Twill kindly prove, perchance, to me Not altogether unforgiving. Fain for my theft I would atone, By adding to the sweets I'm rifling. All I can give them of my own — My all, and yet, ah me, how trifling ! Oh, let me gaze on your deep eyes. And sun my soul, sweet, in your glances. Till all my poets' heroines rise And deck you with their sweet romances. And, since this woven chain of ours Will scarcely serve to reach to fame, I'll hang at least these stolen flowers Around your beauty like a frame. 17T L'ENVOI TO FANNY. Perchance, my darling, as you say. We shall grow wise as we grow older — As yet we've made but little way. As yet our hearts are scarcely colder — Still we may change, and if we do This little book will somewhat bind us, I'll take it up, and think of you, And all the joy that lies behind us ! And when you see this dusty cover. You'll think, with half a sigh I know it, " He was as fond and true a lover, As he was little of a poet." THE END. 172