Shone o'er the shepherd's clouded brow, bedight
With clustering locks, and he said, smiling gay,
"I prithee promise, by thy face so bright,
To ne'er again, where'er thou mayest stray,
Slay the sweet birds that make so glad the light."
While yet he spake, from out those eyes a light
Divine shot forth, before whose glowing ray
The shepherd quailed, it was so wondrous bright;
Then well he knew 'twas Cupid coy and gay,
With all his arts and subtle wiles bedight,
And knelt in homage lest the boy should stray.
"Rise," said the God, "and e'er thy footsteps stray
Know that within her eyes where beamed no light
Of love for thee, I will implant a ray.
She shall be thine with all her charms bedight."
The shepherd kissèd Love's hand and bounded gay
To gain his bliss,--and all the world was bright.
When naught is bright to these that sadly stray,
Oftimes a single ray of Eros' light
Will make all earth bedight with radiance gay.
CLINTON SCOLLARD.
SESTINA.
I saw my soul at rest upon a day
As a bird sleeping in the nest of night,
Among soft leaves that give the starlight way
To touch its wings but not its eyes with light;
So that it knew as one in visions may,
And knew not as men waking, of delight.
This was the measure of my soul's delight;
It had no power of joy to fly by day,
Nor part in the large lordship of the light;
But in a secret moon-beholden way
Had all its will of dreams and pleasant night,
And all the love and life that sleepers may.
But such life's triumph as men waking may
It might not have to feed its faint delight
Between the stars by night and sun by day,
Shut up with green leaves and a little light;
Because its way was as a lost star's way,
A world's not wholly known of day or night.
All loves and dreams and sounds and gleams of night
Made it all music that such minstrels may,
And all they had they gave it of delight;
But in the full face of the fire of day
What place shall be for any starry light,
What part of heaven in all the wide sun's way?
Yet the soul woke not, sleeping by the way,
Watched as a nursling of the large eyed night,
And sought no strength nor knowledge of the day,
Nor closer touch conclusive of delight,
Nor mightier joy nor truer than dreamers may,
Nor more of song than they, nor more of light.
For who sleeps once and sees the secret light
Whereby sleep shows the soul a fairer way
Between the rise and rest of day and night,
Shall care no more to fare as all men may,
But be his place of pain or of delight,
There shall he dwell, beholding night as day.
Song, have thy day and take thy fill of light
Before the night be fallen across thy way;
Sing while he may, man hath no long delight.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
#The Triolet.#
_TRIOLET._
_Le premier jour du mois de mai_
_Fut le plus heureux de ma vie:_
_Le beau dessein que je formai,_
_Le premier jour du mois de mai!_
_Je vous vis et je vous aimai._
_Si ce dessein vous plut, Sylvie,_
_Le premier jour du mois de mai_
_Fut le plus heureux de ma vie._
--RANCHIN.
_LECON DE CHANT._
_Moi, je regardais ce cou-là._
_Maintenant chantez, me dit Paule._
_Avec des mines d'Attila_
_Moi, je regardais ce cou-là._
_Puis, un peu de temps s' écoula ..._
_Moi, je regardais ce cou-là;_
_Maintenant chantez, me dit Paule._
--THEODORE DE BANVILLE.
* * * * *
_"Mon fils, Absalon_
_Absalon, mon fils,_
_Las! perdu l'avon_
_Mon fils Absalon;_
_Il faut que soyon_
_En grief deuil confis_
_Mon fils Absalon_
_Absalon, mon fils!"_
--OLD FRENCH PLAY.
MY SWEETHEART.
She's neither scholarly nor wise,
But, oh, her heart is wondrous tender,
And love lies laughing in her eyes.
She's neither scholarly nor wise,
And yet above all else I prize
The right from evil to defend her.
She's neither scholarly nor wise,
But, oh, her heart is wondrous tender.
GRIFFITH ALEXANDER.
* * * * *
When first we met, we did not guess
That Love would prove so hard a master;
Of more than common friendliness
When first we met we did not guess.
Who could foretell the sore distress,
This irretrievable disaster,
When first we met?-we did not guess
That Love would prove so hard a master.
ROBERT BRIDGES.
* * * * *
All women born are so perverse,
No man need boast their love possessing,
If nought seem better, nothing's worse;
All women born are so perverse,
From Adam's wife that proved a curse,
Though God had made her for a blessing.
All women born are so perverse
No man need boast their love possessing.
ROBERT BRIDGES.
A ROSE.
'Twas a Jacqueminot rose
That she gave me at parting;
Sweetest flower that blows,
'Twas a Jacqueminot rose.
In the love garden close,
With the swift blushes starting,
'Twas a Jacqueminot rose
That she gave me at parting.
If she kissed it, who knows-
Since I will not discover,
And love is that close,
If she kissed it, who knows?
Or if not the red rose
Perhaps then the lover!
If she kissed it, who knows,
Since I will not discover.
Yet at least with the rose
Went a kiss that I'm wearing!
More I will not disclose,
Yet at least with the rose
Went _whose_ kiss no one knows,-
Since I'm only declaring,
"Yet at least with the rose
Went a kiss that I'm wearing."
ARLO BATES.
* * * * *
Wee Rose is but three,
Yet coquettes she already.
I can scarcely agree
Wee Rose is but three,
When her archness I see!
Are the sex born unsteady?-
Wee Rose is but three,
Yet coquettes she already.
ARLO BATES.
* * * * *
A pitcher of mignonette
In a tenement's highest casement;
Queer sort of a flower-pot-yet
That pitcher of mignonette
Is a garden in heaven set
To the little sick child in the basement,-
The pitcher of mignonette
In the tenement's highest casement.
H. C. BUNNER.
* * * * *
In the light, in the shade,
This is time and life's measure:
With a heart unafraid,
In the light, in the shade,
Hope is born and not made,
And the heart finds its treasure
In the light, in the shade;
This is time and life's measure.
WALTER CRANE.
TRIOLETS FOR "THE TWELFTH."
Away from city chafe and care,
At forty miles an hour flying,
Nor let the train me, _blasé_, bear
Away from city chafe and care.
To breezy braes, from street and square,
Who would not, an he could, be hieing;
Away from city chafe and care,
At forty miles an hour flying?
How nice a month on moors to pass
Mid purling becks and purpling heather,
To give the grouse their _coup de grâce_,
How nice a month on moors to pass!
If Fortune prove a liberal lass,
If but auspicious be the weather,
How nice a month on moors to pass,
Mid purling brooks and purpling heather.
Plague take the rain! upon my word,
These mountain mists, how they do hover!
I wish from town I'd never stirred.
Plague take the rain! upon my word,
'Tis just my luck, and not a bird
My guileless gun contrives to cover.
Plague take the rain! upon my word,
These mountain mists, how they _do_ hover.
COTSFORD DICK.
ROSE-LEAVES.
(Triolets.)
A KISS.
Rose kissed me to-day,
Will she kiss me to-morrow?
Let it be as it may,
Rose kissed me to-day.
But the pleasure gives way
To a savour of sorrow;--
Rose kissed me to-day,--
_Will_ she kiss me to-morrow?
CIRCE.
In the School of Coquettes
Madam Rose is a scholar:-
O, they fish with all nets,
In the School of Coquettes!
When her brooch she forgets,
'Tis to show her new collar;
In the School of Coquettes
Madam Rose is a scholar!
A TEAR.
There's a tear in her eye,-
Such a clear little jewel!
What _can_ make her cry?
There's a tear in her eye.
"Puck has killed a big fly,--
And it's _horribly_ cruel;"
There's a tear in her eye,--
Such a clear little jewel!
A GREEK GIFT.
Here's a present for Rose,
How pleased she is looking!
Is it verse? Is it prose?
Here's a present for Rose!
"_Plats_," "_Entrees_" and "_Rôts_,"--
Why, its "Gouffé on Cooking!"
_Here's_ a present for Rose,
How _pleased_ she is looking!
"URCEUS EXIT."
I intended an Ode,
And it turned to a Sonnet,
It began _à la mode_,
I intended an Ode;
But Rose crossed the road
In her latest new bonnet.
I intended an Ode,
And it turned to a Sonnet.
* * * * *
Oh, Love's but a dance,
Where Time plays the fiddle!
See the couples advance,--
Oh! Love's but a dance!
A whisper, a glance,--
'Shall we twirl down the middle?'
Oh, Love's but a dance,
Where Time plays the fiddle!
AUSTIN DOBSON.
TRIOLET, AFTER CATULLUS.
"Jucundum, mea vita."
Happy, my Life, the love you proffer,
Eternal as the gods above;
With such a wealth within my coffer,
Happy my life. The love you proffer,--
If your true heart sustains the offer,-
Will prove the Koh-i-noor of love;
Happy my life! The love you proffer,
Eternal as the gods above!
EDMUND GOSSE.
* * * * *
Easy is the Triolet,
If you really learn to make it!
Once a neat refrain you get,
Easy is the Triolet.
As you see!-I pay my debt
With another rhyme. Deuce take it,
Easy is the Triolet,
If you really learn to make it!
W. E. HENLEY.
* * * * *
Out from the leaves of my "Lucille"
Falls a faded violet.
Sweet and faint as its fragrance, steal
Out from the leaves of my "Lucille"
Tender memories, and I feel
A sense of longing and regret.
Out from the leaves of my "Lucille"
Falls a faded violet.
WALTER LEARNED.
TRIOLETS.
In the days of my youth
I wooed woman with sonnets.
My ideas were uncouth
In the days of my youth.
Now I know that her ruth
Is best reached by new bonnets;
In the days of my youth
I wooed woman with sonnets.
* * * * *
Here's a flower for your grave,
Little love of last year;
Since I once was your slave,
Here's a flower for your grave;
Since I once used to rave
In the praise of my dear,
Here's a flower for your grave,
Little love of last year.
* * * * *
Lo, my heart, so sound asleep,
Lady! will you wake it?
For lost love I used to weep,
Now my heart is sound asleep,
If it once were yours to keep,
I fear you'd break it.
Lo! my heart, so sound asleep,
Lady, will you wake it?
JUSTIN HUNTLY MCCARTHY.
TRIOLETS.
A CORSAGE BOUQUET.
Myrtilla, to-night,
Wears Jacqueminot roses,
She's the loveliest sight!
Myrtilla, to-night:-
Correspondingly light
My pocket-book closes.
Myrtilla, to-night
Wears Jacqueminot roses.
TO AN AUTUMN LEAF.
Wee shallop of shimmering gold!
Slip down from your ways in the branches.
Some fairy will loosen your hold-
Wee shallop of shimmering gold
Spill dew on your bows and unfold
Silk sails for the fairest of launches!
Wee shallop of shimmering gold,
Slip down from your ways in the branches.
A KISS.
You ask me what's a kiss?
'Tis Cupid's keenest arrow!
A thing to take a "miss"-
(You ask me what's a kiss?)
The brink of an abyss!
A lover's pathway, narrow.
You ask me what's a _kiss_?
'Tis Cupid's _keenest_ arrow!
C. H. LÜDERS.
* * * * *
You know it is late,
And the night's growing colder,
Still you lean o'er the gate.
You know it is late,
There's a fire in the grate,
Ah! sweetheart, be bolder.
You know it is late,
And the night's growing colder.
_The "Century."_
* * * * *
Under the sun
There's nothing new;
Poem or pun,
Under the sun,
Said Solomon,
And he said true.
Under the sun
There's nothing new.
"_Love in Idleness._"
SERENADE TRIOLET.
Why is the moon
Awake when thou sleepest?
To the nightingale's tune
Why is the moon
Making a noon
When night is the deepest?
Why is the moon
Awake when thou sleepest?
GEORGE MACDONALD.
TRIOLETS.
Few in joy's sweet riot
Able are to listen:
Thou, to make me quiet,
Quenchest the sweet riot,
Tak'st away my diet,
Puttest me in prison-
Quenchest joy's sweet riot
That the heart may listen.
* * * * *
Spring sits on her nest,
Daisies and white clover;
And young love lies at rest
In the Spring's white nest,
For she loves me best,
And the cold is over;
Spring sits on her nest,
Daisies and white clover.
* * * * *
In his arms thy silly lamb
Lo! he gathers to his breast!
See, thou sadly bleating dam,
See him lift thy silly lamb!
Hear it cry, "How blest I am!-
Here is love and love is rest,"
In his arms thy silly lamb
See him gather to his breast!
GEORGE MACDONALD.
SONG.
I.
I was very cold
In the summer weather;
The sun shone all his gold,
But I was very cold-
Alone, we were grown old,
Love and I together!-
Oh, but I was cold
In the summer weather!
II.
Sudden I grew warmer,
When the brooks were frozen:-
"To be angry is to harm her,"
I said, and straight grew warmer.
"Better men, the charmer
Knows at least a dozen!"-
I said, and straight grew warmer,
Though the brooks were frozen.
III.
Spring sits on her nest-
Daisies and white clover;
And my heart at rest
Lies in the spring's young nest:
My love she loves me best,
And the frost is over!
Spring sits on her nest-
Daisies and white clover!
GEORGE MACDONALD.
UNDER THE ROSE.
HE (_aside_).
If I should steal a little kiss,
Oh, would she weep, I wonder?
I tremble at the thought of bliss,-
If I should steal a little kiss!
Such pouting lips would never miss
The dainty bit of plunder;
If I should steal a little kiss,
Oh, would she weep, I wonder?
SHE (_aside_).
He longs to steal a kiss of mine--
He may, if he'll return it:
If I can read the tender sign,
He longs to steal a kiss of mine;
"In love and war"--you know the line
Why cannot he discern it?
He longs to steal a kiss of mine--
He may if he'll return it.
BOTH (_five minutes later_).
A little kiss when no one sees,
Where is the impropriety?
How sweet amid the birds and bees
A little kiss when no one sees!
Nor is it wrong, the world agrees,
If taken with sobriety.
A little kiss when no one sees,
Where is the impropriety?
SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.
Warm from the wall she chose a peach,
She took the wasps for councillors;
She said, "Such little things can teach;"
Warm from the wall she chose a peach;
She waved the fruit within my reach,
Then passed it to a friend of hers:--
Warm from the wall she chose a peach,
She took the wasps for councillors.
EMILY PFEIFFER.
TWO TRIOLETS.
I.
_What he said._
This kiss upon your fan I press,
Ah! Saint Nitouche, you don't refuse it,
And may it from its soft recess,
This kiss upon your fan I press
Be blown to you a shy caress
By this white down whene'er you use it;
This kiss upon your fan I press,
Ah! Saint Nitouche, you don't refuse it.
II.
_What she thought._
To kiss a fan!
What a poky poet!
The stupid man
To kiss a fan,
When he knows that--he--can,
Or ought to know it.
To kiss a fan!
What a poky poet!
HARRISON ROBERTSON.
SIX TRIOLETS.
DEAR READER.
If you never write verses yourself,
Dear reader, I leave it with you,
You will grant a half-inch of your shelf,
If you never write verses yourself.
It was praised by some lenient elf,
It was damned by a heavy review;
If you never write verses yourself,
Dear reader, I leave it with you.
TRANSPONTINE.
Ices--Programmes--Lemonade!
'E thinks 'e's a Hirving, my eye!
Why, Pussy, you're crying: afraid?
Ices--Programmes--Lemonade!
It's the first time you've seen a piece played?
Its pretty, but, Pussy, don't cry.
Ices--Programmes--Lemonade!
'E thinks 'e's a Hirving, my eye!
OUT.
I killed her? Ah, why do they cheer?
Are those twenty years gone to-day?
Why, she was my wife, sir, dear-so dear.
I killed her? Ah, why do they cheer?
... Ah hound! He was shaking with fear,
And I rushed--with a knife, they say....
I killed her? Ah, why do they cheer?
Are those twenty years gone to-day?
[_v._ Police Reports of the release of George Hall from Birmingham
prison.]
A HUPROAR.
Down 'Ob'n, sir? Circus, Bank, Bank!
'Ere's a huproar, my bloomin', hoff side!
A flower, miss? Ah, thankee, miss, thank-
Down 'Ob'n, sir? Circus, Bank, Bank!
'Igher up! 'Ullo, Bill, wot a prank!
If that 'ere old carcase aint shied!
Down 'Ob'n, sir? Circus, Bank, Bank!
'Ere's a huproar, my bloomin', hoff side!
SPRING VOICES.
Fine Violets! fresh Violets! come buy!
Ah, rich man! I would not be you.
All spring-time it haunts me, that cry:-
Fine Violets! fresh Violets! come buy!
Whose loss if she tell me a lie?
"They're starving; my God, sir, it's true."
Fine Violets! fresh Violets! come buy!
Ah, rich man! I would not be you!
BETWEEN THE LINES.
Cigar lights! yer honour? Cigar lights?
May God forget you in your need.
Ay, damn you! if folks get their rights
(Cigar lights! yer honour?-cigar lights)
Their babies shan't starve in the nights
For wanting the price of your weed-
Cigar lights! yer honour? Cigar lights!
May God forget you in your need!
ERNEST RADFORD.
FROM "FIAMETTA".
Since I am her's and she is mine
We live in Love and fear no change!
For Love is God, so we divine.
Since I am her's and she is mine,
In some fair love-land far and fine,
Through golden years our feet shall range.
Since I am her's and she is mine,
We live in Love and fear no change.
Why dost thou look so pale, my Love?
Why dost thou sigh and say Farewell?
"These myrtles seem a cypress grove."
Why dost thou look so pale, my Love?
"I hear the raven, not the dove,
And for the marriage-peal, a knell."
Why dost thou look so pale, my Love?
Why dost thou sigh and say Farewell?
"Since I can never come again,
When I am dead and gone from here,
Grieve not for me; all grief's in vain,
Since I can never come again;
But let no thought of me remain.
With my last kiss give thy last tear,
Since I can never come again,
When I am dead and gone from here."
All the night and all the day
I think upon her lying dead,
With lips that neither kiss nor pray
All the night nor all the day.
In that dark grave whose only ray
Of sun or moon's her golden head,
All the night and all the day
I think upon her lying dead.
Why should I live alone,
Since Love was all in vain?
My heart to thine is flown-
Why should I live alone?
Dost thou too make thy moan,
In Paradise complain:
Why should I live alone,
Since Love was all in vain?
What can heal a broken heart?
Death alone, I fear me,
Thou that dost true lovers part,
What can heal a broken heart?
Death alone, that made the smart,
Death, that will not hear me.
What can heal a broken heart?
Death alone, I fear me.
A. MARY F. ROBINSON.
A SNOWFLAKE IN MAY.
I saw a snowflake in the air
When smiling May had decked the year,
And then 'twas gone, I knew not where,--
I saw a snowflake in the air,
And thought perchance an angel's prayer
Had fallen from some starry sphere;
I saw a snowflake in the air
When smiling May had decked the year.
CLINTON SCOLLARD.
APOLOGY FOR GAZING AT A YOUNG LADY IN CHURCH.
The sermon was long
And the preacher was prosy.
Dou you think it was wrong?
The sermon was long,
The temptation was strong,
Her cheeks were so rosy.
The sermon was long
And the preacher was prosy.
_The Century Magazine._
A TINY TRIP.
THE BILL OF LADING.
She was cargo and crew,
She was boatswain and skipper,
She was passenger too
Of the _Nutshell_ canoe;
And the eyes were so blue
Of this sweet tiny tripper!
She was cargo and crew,
She was boatswain and skipper!
THE PILOT.
How I bawled "Ship, ahoy!"
Hard by Medmenham Ferry!
And she answered with joy,
She moved like a convoy,
And would love to employ
A bold pilot so merry.
How I bawled "Ship, ahoy!"
Hard by Medmenham Ferry!
THE VOYAGE.
'Neath the trees gold and red
In that bright autumn weather,
When our white sails were spread
O'er the waters we sped-
What was it she said?
When we drifted together!
'Neath the trees gold and red
In that bright autumn weather!
THE HAVEN.
Ah! the moments flew fast,
But our trip too soon ended!
When we reached land at last,
And our craft was made fast,
It was six or half-past-
And Mama looked offended!
Ah! the moments flew fast,
But our trip too soon ended.
J. ASHBY STERRY.
VESTIGIA.
I.
I saw her shadow on the grass
That day we walked together.
Across the field where the pond was
I saw her shadow on the grass.
And now I sigh and say, Alas!
That e'er in summer weather
I saw her shadow on the grass
That day we walked together!
II.
Hope bowed his head in sleep:
Ah me and wellaway!
Although I cannot weep,
Hope bowed his head in sleep.
The heavy hours creep:
When is the break of day?
Hope bowed his head in sleep,
Ah me and wellaway!
III.
The sea on the beach
Flung the foam of its ire.
We watched without speech
The sea on the beach,
And we clung each to each
As the tempest shrilled higher
And the sea on the beach
Flung the foam of its ire.
IV.
When Love is once dead
Who shall awake him?
Bitter our bread
When Love is once dead
His comforts are fled,
His favours forsake him.
When Love is once dead
Who shall awake him?
V.
Love is a swallow
Flitting with spring:
Though we would follow,
Love is a swallow,
All his vows hollow:
Than let us sing,
Love is a swallow
Flitting with spring.
ARTHUR SYMONS.
* * * * *
A poor cicala, piping shrill,
I may not ape the Nightingale,
I sit upon the sun-browned hill,
A poor cicala, piping shrill
When summer noon is warm and still,
Content to chirp my homely tale;
A poor cicala piping shrill,
I may not ape the Nightingale.
GRAHAM R. TOMSON.
THREE TRIOLETS.
I.
Love's footsteps shall not fail nor faint,
He will not leave our hearth again:
So safely lulled his murmuring plaint,
Love's footsteps shall not fail nor faint;
All clasped and bound in fond constraint,
And circled with a shining chain,
Love's footsteps shall not fail nor faint,
He will not leave our hearth again.
II.
Your rose-red bonds are all in vain,
If bound Love weep for weariness:
His faded eyes are drowned in rain.
Your rose-red bonds are all in vain,
He murmurs low a dull refrain,
And turns his lips from our caress-
Your rose-red bonds are all in vain
If bound Love weep for weariness!
III.
That grey, last day we said goodbye
Makes winter weather in my heart;
Dull cloud wreaths veiled our summer sky
That grey, last day we said goodbye
And loosed faint love; I wonder why
(For _then_, in truth, 'twas well to part)
That grey, last day we said goodbye
Makes wintry weather in my heart.
GRAHAM R. TOMSON.
TRIOLET.
The roses are dead,
And swallows are flying:
White, golden, and red,
The roses are dead;
Yet tenderly tread
Where their petals are lying.
The roses are dead,
And swallows are flying.
GRAHAM R. TOMSON.
REJECTED.
You've spoken of love,
And I've answered with laughter;
You've kissed--my kid glove.
You've spoken of love.
Why! powers above?
Is there more to come after.
You've spoken of love
And I've answered with laughter.
Her lips were so near
That--what else could I do?
You'll be angry, I fear,
Her lips were so near.
Well, I can't make it clear
Or explain it to you.
Her lips were so near
That--what else could I do?
_From "The Century."_
A PAIR OF GLOVES.
My love of loves--my May,
In rippling shadows lying,
Was sleeping mid the hay--
My love of loves--my May!
The ardent sun was trying
To kiss her dreams away!
My love of loves--my May,
In rippling shadows lying.
I knelt and kissed her lips,
Sweeter than any flower
The bee for honey sips!
I knelt and kissed her lips,--
And as her dark eyes' power
Awoke from sleep's eclipse,
I knelt and kissed her lips,
Sweeter than any flower!
The pair of gloves I won,
My darling pays in kisses!
Long may the sweet debt run--
The pair of gloves I won!
Till death our loves dismisses
This feud will ne'er be done--
The pair of gloves I won,
My darling pays in kisses!
C. H. WARING.
IN THE ORCHARD.
A Trio of Triolets.
O the apples rosy-red!
O the gnarled trunks grey and brown,
Heavy-branchèd overhead!
O the apples rosy-red!
O the merry laughter sped,
As the fruit is showered down!
O the apples rosy-red!
O the gnarled trunks grey and brown!
O the blushes rosy-red!
O the loving autumn breeze!
O the words so softly said!
O the blushes rosy-red,
While old doubts and fears lie dead,
Buried 'neath the apple-trees!
O the blushes rosy-red!
O the loving autumn breeze!
O the years so swiftly fled!
O twin hearts that beat as one,
With a love time-strengthenèd!
O the years so swiftly fled!
O the apples rosy-red,
That still ripen in the sun!
O the years so swiftly fled!
O twin hearts that beat as one!
GEORGE WEATHERLY.
#The Villanelle, Virelai, and Virelai Nouveau.#
_VILLANELLE._
_J'ay perdu ma tourterelle;_
_Est-ce-point elle que i'oy?_[10]
_Je veux aller après elle._
_Tu regrettes ta femelle;_
_Hélas! aussy fay-je moy:_
_J'ay perdu ma tourterelle._
_Si ton amour est fidèle,_
_Aussy est ferme ma foy;_
_Je veux aller après elle._
_Ta plainte se renouvelle?_
_Toujours plaindre je me doy:_
_J'ay perdu ma tourterelle._
_En ne voyant plus la belle_
_Plus rien de beau je ne voy:_
_Je veux aller après elle._
_Mort, que tant de fois j'appelle_
_Prens ce qui se donne à toy:_
_J'ai perdu ma tourterelle,_
_Je veux aller après elle._
--JEAN PASSERAT.
[10] _J'entends._
ROSES.
There are roses white, there are roses red,
Shyly rosy, tenderly white;-
Which shall I choose to wreathe my head?
Which shall I cull from the garden-bed
To greet my love on this very night?
There are roses white, there are roses red.
The red should say what I would have said;
Ah! how they blush in the evening light!
Which shall I choose to wreathe my head?
The white are pale as the snow new-spread,
Pure as young eyes and half as bright;
There are roses white, there are roses red.
Roses white, from the heaven dew-fed,
Roses red for a passion's plight;
Which shall I choose to wreathe my head?