1832.
_SERENADE._
Lute! breathe thy lowest in my Lady's ear,
Sing while she sleeps, "Ah! belle dame, aimez-vous?"
Till, dreaming still, she dream that I am here,
And wake to find it, as my love is, true;
Then, when she listens in her warm white nest,
Say in slow music,--softer, tenderer yet,
That lute-strings quiver when their tone 's at rest,
And my heart trembles when my lips are set.
Stars! if my sweet love still a-dreaming lies,
Shine through the roses for a lover's sake
And send your silver to her lidded eyes,
Kissing them very gently till she wake;
Then while she wonders at the lay and light,
Tell her, though morning endeth star and song,
That ye live still, when no star glitters bright,
And my love lasteth, though it finds no tongue.
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_A LOVE SONG OF HENRI QUATRE._
Come, rosy Day!
Come quick--I pray--
I am so glad when I thee see!
Because my Fair,
Who is so dear,
Is rosy-red and white like thee.
She lives, I think,
On heavenly drink
Dawn-dew, which Hebe pours for her;
Else--when I sip
At her soft lip
How smells it of ambrosia?
She is so fair
None can compare;
And, oh, her slender waist divine!
Her sparkling eyes
Set in the skies
The morning stars would far outshine!
Only to hear
Her voice so clear
The village gathers in the street;
And Tityrus,
Grown one of us,
Leaves piping on his flute so sweet.
The Graces three,
Where'er she be,
Call all the Loves to flutter nigh;
And what she 'll say,--
Speak when she may,--
Is full of sense and majesty!
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