Transcribed from the 1872 Longmans, Green, and Co. edition by David
Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org
BALLADS AND LYRICS
OF OLD FRANCE:
_WITH OTHER POEMS_.
* * * * *
BY
A. LANG.
* * * * *
LONDON:
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
1872.
* * * * *
TO
E. M. S.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
_TRANSLATIONS_.
PAGE
List of Poets translated 2
CHARLES D’ORLEANS:
Spring 5
Rondel 6
FRANÇOIS VILLON:
Rondel 7
Arbor Amoris 8
Ballad of the Gibbet 11
DU BELLAY:
Hymn to the Winds 14
A Vow to Heavenly Venus 16
To his Friend in Elysium 17
A Sonnet to Heavenly Beauty 18
REMY BELLEAU:
April 19
RONSARD:
Roses 24
The Rose 25
To the Moon 27
To his Young Mistress 29
Deadly Kisses 30
Of his Lady’s Old Age 31
On his Lady’s Waking 32
His Lady’s Death 33
His Lady’s Tomb 34
JACQUES TAHUREAU:
Shadows of his Lady 35
Moonlight 36
PASSERAT:
Love in May 37
VICTOR HUGO:
The Grave and the Rose 40
The Genesis of Butterflies 42
More Strong than Time 44
GÉRARD DE NERVAL:
An Old Tune 46
ALFRED DE MUSSET:
Juana 48
HENRI MURGER:
Spring in the Student’s Quarter 51
Old Loves 53
Musette 55
BALLADS:
The Three Captains 58
The Bridge of Death 63
Le Père Sévère 65
The Milk White Doe 68
A Lady of High Degree 72
Lost for a Rose’s Sake 75
BALLADS OF MODERN GREECE:
The Brigand’s Grave 77
The Sudden Bridal 79
GREEK FOLK SONGS:
Iannoula 85
The Tell-Tales 87
_AVE_.
Twilight on Tweed 91
One Flower 93
Metempsychosis 94
Lost in Hades 95
A Star in the Night 96
A Sunset on Yarrow 97
_HESPEROTHEN_.
The Seekers for Phæacia 101
A Song of Phæacia 104
The Departure from Phæacia 107
A Ballad of Departure 110
They hear the Sirens for the Second Time 111
Circe’s Isle revisited 114
The Limit of Lands 116
_VERSES ON PICTURES_.
Colinette 121
A Sunset of Watteau 124
A Nativity of Sandro Botticelli 127
_SONGS AND SONNETS_.
Two Homes 131
Summer’s Ending 133
Nightingale Weather 134
Love and Wisdom 136
Good-bye 138
An Old Prayer 140
Love’s Miracle 141
Dreams 142
Fairy Land 143
Two Sonnets of the Sirens 146
À la Belle Hélène 148
Sylvie et Aurélie 150
A Lost Path 152
The Shade of Helen 154
_SONNETS TO POETS_.
Jacques Tahureau 159
François Villon 160
Pierre Ronsard 161
Gérard de Nerval 162
The Death of Mirandola 163
TRANSLATIONS.
LIST OF POETS TRANSLATED.
I. CHARLES D’ORLEANS, who has sometimes, for no very obvious reason,
been styled the father of French lyric poetry, was born in May, 1391. He
was the son of Louis D’Orleans, the grandson of Charles V., and the
father of Louis XII. Captured at Agincourt, he was kept in England as a
prisoner from 1415 to 1440, when he returned to France, where he died in
1465. His verses, for the most part roundels on two rhymes, are songs of
love and spring, and retain the allegorical forms of the Roman de la
Rose.
II. FRANÇOIS VILLON, 1431–14-? Nothing is known of Villon’s birth or
death, and only too much of his life. In his poems the ancient forms of
French verse are animated with the keenest sense of personal emotion, of
love, of melancholy, of mocking despair, and of repentance for a life
passed in taverns and prisons.
III. JOACHIM DU BELLAY, 1525–1560. The exact date of Du Bellay’s birth
is unknown. He was certainly a little younger than Ronsard, who was born
in September, 1524, although an attempt has been made to prove that his
birth took place in 1525, as a compensation from Nature to France for the
battle of Pavia. As a poet Du Bellay had the start, by a few mouths, of
Ronsard; his _Recueil_ was published in 1549. The question of priority
in the new style of poetry caused a quarrel, which did not long separate
the two singers. Du Bellay is perhaps the most interesting of the
Pleiad, that company of Seven, who attempted to reform French verse, by
inspiring it with the enthusiasm of the Renaissance. His book
_L’Illustration de la langue Française_ is a plea for the study of
ancient models and for the improvement of the vernacular. In this effort
Du Bellay and Ronsard are the predecessors of Malherbe, and of André
Chénier, more successful through their frank eagerness than the former,
less fortunate in the possession of critical learning and appreciative
taste than the latter. There is something in Du Bellay’s life, in the
artistic nature checked by occupation in affairs—he was the secretary of
Cardinal Du Bellay—in the regret and affection with which Rome depressed
and allured him, which reminds the English reader of the thwarted career
of Clough.
IV. REMY BELLEAU, 1528–1577. Du Belleau’s life was spent in the
household of Charles de Lorraine, Marquis d’Elboeuf, and was marked by
nothing more eventful than the usual pilgrimage to Italy, the sacred land
and sepulchre of art.
V. PIERRE RONSARD, 1524–1585. Ronsard’s early years gave little sign of
his vocation. He was for some time a page of the court, was in the
service of James V. of Scotland, and had his share of shipwrecks,
battles, and amorous adventures. An illness which produced total
deafness made him a scholar and poet, as in another age and country it
might have made him a saint and an ascetic. With all his industry, and
almost religious zeal for art, he is one of the poets who make
themselves, rather than are born singers. His epic, the Franciade, is as
tedious as other artificial epics, and his odes are almost unreadable.
We are never allowed to forget that he is the poet who read the Iliad
through in three days. He is, as has been said of Le Brun, more
mythological than Pindar. His constant allusion to his grey hair, an
affectation which may be noticed in Shelley, is borrowed from Anacreon.
Many of the sonnets in which he ‘petrarquizes,’ retain the faded odour of
the roses he loved; and his songs have fire and melancholy and a sense as
of perfume from ‘a closet long to quiet vowed, with mothed and dropping
arras hung.’ Ronsard’s great fame declined when is Malherbe came to
‘bind the sweet influences of the Pleiad,’ but he has been duly honoured
by the newest school of French poetry.
VI. JACQUES TAHUREAU, 1527–1555. The amorous poetry of Jacques Tahureau
has the merit, rare in his, or in any age, of being the real expression
of passion. His brief life burned itself away before he had exhausted
the lyric effusion of his youth. ‘Le plus beau gentilhomme de son
siècle, et le plus dextre à toutes sortes de gentillesses,’ died at the
age of twenty-eight, fulfilling the presentiment which tinges, but
scarcely saddens his poetry.
VII. JEAN PASSERAT, 1534–1602. Better known as a political satirist
than as a poet.
POETS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.
VICTOR HUGO.
ALFRED DE MUSSET, 1810–1857.
GÉRARD DE NERVAL, 1801–1855.
HENRI MURGER, 1822–1861.
BALLADS.
The originals of the French folk-songs here translated are to be found in
the collections of MM. De Puymaigre and Gerard de Nerval, and in the
report of M. Ampère.
The verses called a ‘Lady of High Degree’ are imitated from a very early
_chanson_ in Bartsch’s collection.
The Greek ballads have been translated with the aid of the French
versions by M. Fauriel.
SPRING.
CHARLES D’ORLEANS, 1391–1465.
The new-liveried year.—_Sir Henry Wotton_.
* * * * *
THE year has changed his mantle cold
Of wind, of rain, of bitter air;
And he goes clad in cloth of gold,
Of laughing suns and season fair;
No bird or beast of wood or wold
But doth with cry or song declare
The year lays down his mantle cold.
All founts, all rivers, seaward rolled,
The pleasant summer livery wear,
With silver studs on broidered vair;
The world puts off its raiment old,
The year lays down his mantle cold.
RONDEL.
CHARLES D’ORLEANS, 1391–1465.
To his Mistress, to succour his heart that is beleaguered by jealousy.
* * * * *
STRENGTHEN, my Love, this castle of my heart,
And with some store of pleasure give me aid,
For Jealousy, with all them of his part,
Strong siege about the weary tower has laid.
Nay, if to break his bands thou art afraid,
Too weak to make his cruel force depart,
Strengthen at least this castle of my heart,
And with some store of pleasure give me aid.
Nay, let not Jealousy, for all his art
Be master, and the tower in ruin laid,
That still, ah Love! thy gracious rule obeyed.
Advance, and give me succour of thy part;
Strengthen, my Love, this castle of my heart.
RONDEL.
FRANCOIS VILLON, 1460
GOODBYE! the tears are in my eyes;
Farewell, farewell, my prettiest;
Farewell, of women born the best;
Good-bye! the saddest of good-byes.
Farewell! with many vows and sighs
My sad heart leaves you to your rest;
Farewell! the tears are in my eyes;
Farewell! from you my miseries
Are more than now may be confessed,
And most by thee have I been blessed,
Yea, and for thee have wasted sighs;
Goodbye! the last of my goodbyes.
ARBOR AMORIS.
FRANCOIS VILLON, 1460
I HAVE a tree, a graft of Love,
That in my heart has taken root;
Sad are the buds and blooms thereof,
And bitter sorrow is its fruit;
Yet, since it was a tender shoot,
So greatly hath its shadow spread,
That underneath all joy is dead,
And all my pleasant days are flown,
Nor can I slay it, nor instead
Plant any tree, save this alone.
Ah, yet, for long and long enough
My tears were rain about its root,
And though the fruit be harsh thereof,
I scarcely looked for better fruit
Than this, that carefully I put
In garner, for the bitter bread
Whereon my weary life is fed:
Ah, better were the soil unsown
That bears such growths; but Love instead
Will plant no tree, but this alone.
Ah, would that this new spring, whereof
The leaves and flowers flush into shoot,
I might have succour and aid of Love,
To prune these branches at the root,
That long have borne such bitter fruit,
And graft a new bough, comforted
With happy blossoms white and red;
So pleasure should for pain atone,
Nor Love slay this tree, nor instead
Plant any tree, but this alone.
L’ENVOY.
Princess, by whom my hope is fed,
My heart thee prays in lowlihead
To prune the ill boughs overgrown,
Nor slay Love’s tree, nor plant instead
Another tree, save this alone.
BALLAD OF THE GIBBET.
An epitaph in the form of a ballad that François Villon wrote of himself
and his company, they expecting shortly to be hanged.
* * * * *
BROTHERS and men that shall after us be,
Let not your hearts be hard to us:
For pitying this our misery
Ye shall find God the more piteous.
Look on us six that are hanging thus,
And for the flesh that so much we cherished
How it is eaten of birds and perished,
And ashes and dust fill our bones’ place,
Mock not at us that so feeble be,
But pray God pardon us out of His grace.
Listen, we pray you, and look not in scorn,
Though justly, in sooth, we are cast to die;
Ye wot no man so wise is born
That keeps his wisdom constantly.
Be ye then merciful, and cry
To Mary’s Son that is piteous,
That His mercy take no stain from us,
Saving us out of the fiery place.
We are but dead, let no soul deny
To pray God succour us of His grace.
The rain out of heaven has washed us clean,
The sun has scorched us black and bare,
Ravens and rooks have pecked at our eyne,
And feathered their nests with our beards and hair.
Round are we tossed, and here and there,
This way and that, at the wild wind’s will,
Never a moment my body is still;
Birds they are busy about my face.
Live not as we, nor fare as we fare;
Pray God pardon us out of His grace.
L’ENVOY.
Prince Jesus, Master of all, to thee
We pray Hell gain no mastery,
That we come never anear that place;
And ye men, make no mockery,
Pray God pardon us out of His grace.
HYMN TO THE WINDS.
DU BELLAY, 1550.
The winds are invoked by the winnowers of corn.
* * * * *
TO you, troop so fleet,
That with winged wandering feet,
Through the wide world pass,
And with soft murmuring
Toss the green shades of spring
In woods and grass,
Lily and violet
I give, and blossoms wet,
Roses and dew;
This branch of blushing roses,
Whose fresh bud uncloses,
Wind-flowers too.
Ah, winnow with sweet breath,
Winnow the holt and heath,
Round this retreat;
Where all the golden morn
We fan the gold o’ the corn,
In the sun’s heat.
A VOW TO HEAVENLY VENUS.
DU BELLAY, 1500
WE that with like hearts love, we lovers twain,
New wedded in the village by thy fane,
Lady of all chaste love, to thee it is
We bring these amaranths, these white lilies,
A sign, and sacrifice; may Love, we pray,
Like amaranthine flowers, feel no decay;
Like these cool lilies may our loves remain,
Perfect and pure, and know not any stain;
And be our hearts, from this thy holy hour,
Bound each to each, like flower to wedded flower.
TO HIS FRIEND IN ELYSIUM.
DU BELLAY, 1550.
SO long you wandered on the dusky plain,
Where flit the shadows with their endless cry,
You reach the shore where all the world goes by,
You leave the strife, the slavery, the pain;
But we, but we, the mortals that remain
In vain stretch hands; for Charon sullenly
Drives us afar, we may not come anigh
Till that last mystic obolus we gain.
But you are happy in the quiet place,
And with the learned lovers of old days,
And with your love, you wander ever-more
In the dim woods, and drink forgetfulness
Of us your friends, a weary crowd that press
About the gate, or labour at the oar.
A SONNET TO HEAVENLY BEAUTY.
DU BELLAY, 1550.
IF this our little life is but a day
In the Eternal,—if the years in vain
Toil after hours that never come again,—
If everything that hath been must decay,
Why dreamest thou of joys that pass away,
My soul, that my sad body doth restrain?
Why of the moment’s pleasure art thou fain?
Nay, thou hast wings,—nay, seek another stay.
There is the joy whereto each soul aspires,
And there the rest that all the world desires,
And there is love, and peace, and gracious mirth;
And there in the most highest heavens shalt thou
Behold the Very Beauty, whereof now
Thou worshippest the shadow upon earth.
APRIL.
REMY BELLEAU, 1560.
APRIL, pride of woodland ways,
Of glad days,
April, bringing hope of prime,
To the young flowers that beneath
Their bud sheath
Are guarded in their tender time;
April, pride of fields that be
Green and free,
That in fashion glad and gay,
Stud with flowers red and blue,
Every hue,
Their jewelled spring array;
April, pride of murmuring
Winds of spring,
That beneath the winnowed air,
Trap with subtle nets and sweet
Flora’s feet,
Flora’s feet, the fleet and fair;
April, by thy hand caressed,
From her breast
Nature scatters everywhere
Handfuls of all sweet perfumes,
Buds and blooms,
Making faint the earth and air.
April, joy of the green hours,
Clothes with flowers
Over all her locks of gold
My sweet Lady; and her breast
With the blest
Birds of summer manifold.
April, with thy gracious wiles,
Like the smiles,
Smiles of Venus; and thy breath
Like her breath, the Gods’ delight,
(From their height
They take the happy air beneath;)
It is thou that, of thy grace,
From their place
In the far-oft isles dost bring
Swallows over earth and sea,
Glad to be
Messengers of thee, and Spring.
Daffodil and eglantine,
And woodbine,
Lily, violet, and rose
Plentiful in April fair,
To the air,
Their pretty petals do unclose.
Nightingales ye now may hear,
Piercing clear,
Singing in the deepest shade;
Many and many a babbled note
Chime and float,
Woodland music through the glade.
April, all to welcome thee,
Spring sets free
Ancient flames, and with low breath
Wakes the ashes grey and old
That the cold
Chilled within our hearts to death.
Thou beholdest in the warm
Hours, the swarm
Of the thievish bees, that flies
Evermore from bloom to bloom
For perfume,
Hid away in tiny thighs.
Her cool shadows May can boast,
Fruits almost
Ripe, and gifts of fertile dew,
Manna-sweet and honey-sweet,
That complete
Her flower garland fresh and new.
Nay, but I will give my praise,
To these days,
Named with the glad name of Her {23}
That from out the foam o’ the sea
Came to be
Sudden light on earth and air.
ROSES.
RONSARD, 1550.
I SEND you here a wreath of blossoms blown,
And woven flowers at sunset gathered,
Another dawn had seen them ruined, and shed
Loose leaves upon the grass at random strown.
By this, their sure example, be it known,
That all your beauties, now in perfect flower,
Shall fade as these, and wither in an hour,
Flowerlike, and brief of days, as the flower sown.
Ah, time is flying, lady—time is flying;
Nay, ’tis not time that flies but we that go,
Who in short space shall be in churchyard lying,
And of our loving parley none shall know,
Nor any man consider what we were;
Be therefore kind, my love, whiles thou art fair.
THE ROSE.
RONSARD, 1550.
SEE, Mignonne, hath not the Rose,
That this morning did unclose
Her purple mantle to the light,
Lost, before the day be dead,
The glory of her raiment red,
Her colour, bright as yours is bright?
Ah, Mignonne, in how few hours,
The petals of her purple flowers
All have faded, fallen, died;
Sad Nature, mother ruinous,
That seest thy fair child perish thus
’Twixt matin song and even tide.
Hear me, my darling, speaking sooth,
Gather the fleet flower of your youth,
Take ye your pleasure at the best;
Be merry ere your beauty flit,
For length of days will tarnish it
Like roses that were loveliest.
TO THE MOON.
RONSARD, 1550.
HIDE this one night thy crescent, kindly Moon;
So shall Endymion faithful prove, and rest
Loving and unawakened on thy breast;
So shall no foul enchanter importune
Thy quiet course; for now the night is boon,
And through the friendly night unseen I fare,
Who dread the face of foemen unaware,
And watch of hostile spies in the bright noon.
Thou knowest, Moon, the bitter power of Love;
’Tis told how shepherd Pan found ways to move,
For little price, thy heart; and of your grace,
Sweet stars, be kind to this not alien fire,
Because on earth ye did not scorn desire,
Bethink ye, now ye hold your heavenly place.
TO HIS YOUNG MISTRESS.
RONSARD, 1550.
FAIR flower of fifteen springs, that still
Art scarcely blossomed from the bud,
Yet hast such store of evil will,
A heart so full of hardihood,
Seeking to hide in friendly wise
The mischief of your mocking eyes.
If you have pity, child, give o’er;
Give back the heart you stole from me,
Pirate, setting so little store
On this your captive from Love’s sea,
Holding his misery for gain,
And making pleasure of his pain.
Another, not so fair of face,
But far more pitiful than you,
Would take my heart, if of his grace,
My heart would give her of Love’s due;
And she shall have it, since I find
That you are cruel and unkind.
Nay, I would rather that it died,
Within your white hands prisoning,
Would rather that it still abide
In your ungentle comforting.
Than change its faith, and seek to her
That is more kind, but not so fair.
DEADLY KISSES.
RONSARD, 1550.
ALL take these lips away; no more,
No more such kisses give to me.
My spirit faints for joy; I see
Through mists of death the dreamy shore,
And meadows by the water-side,
Where all about the Hollow Land
Fare the sweet singers that have died,
With their lost ladies, hand in hand;
Ah, Love, how fireless are their eyes,
How pale their lips that kiss and smile!
So mine must be in little while
If thou wilt kiss me in such wise.
OF HIS LADY’S OLD AGE.
RONSARD, 1550
WHEN you are very old, at evening
You’ll sit and spin beside the fire, and say,
Humming my songs, ‘Ah well, ah well-a-day!
When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing.’
None of your maidens that doth hear the thing,
Albeit with her weary task foredone,
But wakens at my name, and calls you one
Blest, to be held in long remembering.
I shall be low beneath the earth, and laid
On sleep, a phantom in the myrtle shade,
While you beside the fire, a grandame grey,
My love, your pride, remember and regret;
Ah, love me, love! we may be happy yet,
And gather roses, while ’tis called to-day.
ON HIS LADY’S WAKING.
RONSARD, 1550
MY lady woke upon a morning fair,
What time Apollo’s chariot takes the skies,
And, fain to fill with arrows from her eyes
His empty quiver, Love was standing there:
I saw two apples that her breast doth bear
None such the close of the Hesperides
Yields; nor hath Venus any such as these,
Nor she that had of nursling Mars the care.
Even such a bosom, and so fair it was,
Pure as the perfect work of Phidias,
That sad Andromeda’s discomfiture
Left bare, when Perseus passed her on a day,
And pale as Death for fear of Death she lay,
With breast as marble cold, as marble pure.
HIS LADY’S DEATH.
RONSARD, 1550.
TWAIN that were foes, while Mary lived, are fled;
One laurel-crowned abides in heaven, and one
Beneath the earth has fared, a fallen sun,
A light of love among the loveless dead.
The first is Chastity, that vanquished
The archer Love, that held joint empery
With the sweet beauty that made war on me,
When laughter of lips with laughing eyes was wed.
Their strife the Fates have closed, with stern control,
The earth holds her fair body, and her soul
An angel with glad angels triumpheth;
Love has no more that he can do; desire
Is buried, and my heart a faded fire,
And for Death’s sake, I am in love with Death.
HIS LADY’S TOMB.
RONSARD, 1550.
AS in the gardens, all through May, the rose,
Lovely, and young, and fair apparelled,
Makes sunrise jealous of her rosy red,
When dawn upon the dew of dawning glows;
Graces and Loves within her breast repose,
The woods are faint with the sweet odour shed,
Till rains and heavy suns have smitten dead
The languid flower, and the loose leaves unclose,—
So this, the perfect beauty of our days,
When earth and heaven were vocal of her praise,
The fates have slain, and her sweet soul reposes;
And tears I bring, and sighs, and on her tomb
Pour milk, and scatter buds of many a bloom,
That dead, as living, she may be with roses.
SHADOWS OF HIS LADY.
JACQUES TAHUREAU, 1527–1555.
WITHIN the sand of what far river lies
The gold that gleams in tresses of my Love?
What highest circle of the Heavens above
Is jewelled with such stars as are her eyes?
And where is the rich sea whose coral vies
With her red lips, that cannot kiss enough?
What dawn-lit garden knew the rose, whereof
The fled soul lives in her cheeks’ rosy guise?
What Parian marble that is loveliest,
Can match the whiteness of her brow and breast?
When drew she breath from the Sabæan glade?
Oh happy rock and river, sky and sea,
Gardens, and glades Sabæan, all that be
The far-off splendid semblance of my maid!
MOONLIGHT.
JACQUES TAHUREAU, 1527–1555.
THE high Midnight was garlanding her head
With many a shining star in shining skies,
And, of her grace, a slumber on mine eyes,
And, after sorrow, quietness was shed.
Far in dim fields cicalas jargonéd
A thin shrill clamour of complaints and cries;
And all the woods were pallid, in strange wise,
With pallor of the sad moon overspread.
Then came my lady to that lonely place,
And, from her palfrey stooping, did embrace
And hang upon my neck, and kissed me over;
Wherefore the day is far less dear than night,
And sweeter is the shadow than the light,
Since night has made me such a happy lover.
LOVE IN MAY.
PASSERAT, 1580.
OFF with sleep, love, up from bed,
This fair morn;
See, for our eyes the rosy red
New dawn is born;
Now that skies are glad and gay
In this gracious month of May,
Love me, sweet,
Fill my joy in brimming measure,
In this world he hath no pleasure,
That will none of it.
Come, love, through the woods of spring,
Come walk with me;
Listen, the sweet birds jargoning
From tree to tree.
List and listen, over all
Nightingale most musical
That ceases never;
Grief begone, and let us be
For a space as glad as he;
Time’s flitting ever.
Old Time, that loves not lovers, wears
Wings swift in flight;
All our happy life he bears
Far in the night.
Old and wrinkled on a day,
Sad and weary shall you say,
‘Ah, fool was I,
That took no pleasure in the grace
Of the flower that from my face
Time has seen die.’
Leave then sorrow, teen, and tears
Till we be old;
Young we are, and of our years
Till youth be cold
Pluck the flower; while spring is gay
In this happy month of May,
Love me, love;
Fill our joy in brimming measure;
In this world he hath no pleasure
That will none thereof.
THE GRAVE AND THE ROSE.
VICTOR HUGO.
THE Grave said to the Rose,
‘What of the dews of dawn,
Love’s flower, what end is theirs?’
‘And what of spirits flown,
The souls whereon doth close
The tomb’s mouth unawares?’
The Rose said to the Grave.
The Rose said, ‘In the shade
From the dawn’s tears is made
A perfume faint and strange,
Amber and honey sweet.’
‘And all the spirits fleet
Do suffer a sky-change,
More strangely than the dew,
To God’s own angels new,’
The Grave said to the Rose.
THE GENESIS OF BUTTERFLIES.
VICTOR HUGO.
THE dawn is smiling on the dew that covers
The tearful roses; lo, the little lovers
That kiss the buds, and all the flutterings
In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings,
That go and come, and fly, and peep and hide,
With muffled music, murmured far and wide!
Ah, Spring time, when we think of all the lays
That dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays,
Of the fond hearts within a billet bound,
Of all the soft silk paper that pens wound,
The messages of love that mortals write
Filled with intoxication of delight,
Written in April, and before the May time
Shredded and flown, play things for the wind’s play-time,
We dream that all white butterflies above,
Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love,
And leave their lady mistress in despair,
To flit to flowers, as kinder and more fair,
Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies
Flutter, and float, and change to Butterflies.
MORE STRONG THAN TIME.
VICTOR HUGO.
SINCE I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet,
Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid,
Since I have known your soul, and all the bloom of it,
And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade;
Since it was given to me to hear one happy while,
The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries,
Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile,
Your lips upon my lips, and your eyes upon my eyes;
Since I have known above my forehead glance and gleam,
A ray, a single ray, of your star, veiled always,
Since I have felt the fall, upon my lifetime’s stream,
Of one rose petal plucked from the roses of your days;
I now am bold to say to the swift changing hours,
Pass, pass upon your way, for I grow never old,
Fleet to the dark abysm with all your fading flowers,
One rose that none may pluck, within my heart I hold.
Your flying wings may smite, but they can never spill
The cup fulfilled of love, from which my lips are wet;
My heart has far more fire than you have frost to chill,
My soul more love than you can make my soul forget.
AN OLD TUNE.
GERARD DE NERVAL.
THERE is an air for which I would disown
Mozart’s, Rossini’s, Weber’s melodies,—
A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs,
And keeps its secret charm for me alone.
Whene’er I hear that music vague and old,
Two hundred years are mist that rolls away;
The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold
A green land golden in the dying day.
An old red castle, strong with stony towers,
The windows gay with many coloured glass;
Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers,
That bathe the castle basement as they pass.
In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair,
A lady looks forth from her window high;
It may be that I knew and found her fair,
In some forgotten life, long time gone by.
JUANA.
ALFRED DE MUSSET.
AGAIN I see you, ah my queen,
Of all my old loves that have been,
The first love, and the tenderest;
Do you remember or forget—
Ah me, for I remember yet—
How the last summer days were blest?
Ah lady, when we think of this,
The foolish hours of youth and bliss,
How fleet, how sweet, how hard to hold!
How old we are, ere spring be green!
You touch the limit of eighteen
And I am twenty winters old.
My rose, that mid the red roses,
Was brightest, ah, how pale she is!
Yet keeps the beauty of her prime;
Child, never Spanish lady’s face
Was lovely with so wild a grace;
Remember the dead summer time.
Think of our loves, our feuds of old,
And how you gave your chain of gold
To me for a peace offering;
And how all night I lay awake
To touch and kiss it for your sake,—
To touch and kiss the lifeless thing.
Lady, beware, for all we say,
This Love shall live another day,
Awakened from his deathly sleep;
The heart that once has been your shrine
For other loves is too divine;
A home, my dear, too wide and deep.
What did I say—why do I dream?
Why should I struggle with the stream
Whose waves return not any day?
Close heart, and eyes, and arms from me;
Farewell, farewell! so must it be,
So runs, so runs, the world away,
The season bears upon its wing
The swallows and the songs of spring,
And days that were, and days that flit;
The loved lost hours are far away;
And hope and fame are scattered spray
For me, that gave you love a day
For you that not remember it.
SPRING IN THE STUDENT’S QUARTER.
HENRI MURGER.
WINTER is passing, and the bells
For ever with their silver lay
Murmur a melody that tells
Of April and of Easter day.
High in sweet air the light vane sets,
The weathercocks all southward twirl;
A sou will buy her violets
And make Nini a happy girl.
The winter to the poor was sore,
Counting the weary winter days,
Watching his little fire-wood store,
The bitter snow-flakes fell always;
And now his last log dimly gleamed,
Lighting the room with feeble glare,
Half cinder and half smoke it seemed
That the wind wafted into air.
Pilgrims from ocean and far isles
See where the east is reddening,
The flocks that fly a thousand miles
From sunsetting to sunsetting;
Look up, look out, behold the swallows,
The throats that twitter, the wings that beat;
And on their song the summer follows,
And in the summer life is sweet.
* * * * * *
With the green tender buds that know
The shoot and sap of lusty spring
My neighbour of a year ago
Her casement, see, is opening;
Through all the bitter months that were,
Forth from her nest she dared not flee,
She was a study for Boucher,
She now might sit to Gavarni.
OLD LOVES.
HENRI MURGER.
LOUISE, have you forgotten yet
The corner of the flowery land,
The ancient garden where we met,
My hand that trembled in your hand?
Our lips found words scarce sweet enough,
As low beneath the willow-trees
We sat; have you forgotten, love?
Do you remember, love Louise?
Marie, have you forgotten yet
The loving barter that we made?
The rings we changed, the suns that set,
The woods fulfilled with sun and shade?
The fountains that were musical
By many an ancient trysting tree—
Marie, have you forgotten all?
Do you remember, love Marie?
Christine, do you remember yet
Your room with scents and roses gay?
My garret—near the sky ’twas set—
The April hours, the nights of May?
The clear calm nights—the stars above
That whispered they were fairest seen
Through no cloud-veil? Remember, love!
Do you remember, love Christine?
Louise is dead, and, well-a-day!
Marie a sadder path has ta’en;
And pale Christine has passed away
In southern suns to bloom again.
Alas! for one and all of us—
Marie, Louise, Christine forget;
Our bower of love is ruinous,
And I alone remember yet.
MUSETTE.
HENRI MURGER. 1850
YESTERDAY, watching the swallows’ flight
That bring the spring and the season fair,
A moment I thought of the beauty bright
Who loved me, when she had time to spare;
And dreamily, dreamily all the day,
I mused on the calendar of the year,
The year so near and so far away,
When you were lief, and when I was dear.
Your memory has not had time to pass;
My youth has days of its lifetime yet;
If you only knocked at the door, alas,
My heart would open the door, Musette!
Still at your name must my sad heart beat;
Ah Muse, ah maiden of faithlessness!
Return for a moment, and deign to eat
The bread that pleasure was wont to bless.
The tables and curtains, the chairs and all,
Friends of our pleasure that looked on our pain,
Are glad with the gladness of festival,
Hoping to see you at home again;
Come, let the days of their mourning pass,
The silent friends that are sad for you yet;
The little sofa, the great wine glass—
For know you had often my share, Musette.
Come, you shall wear the raiment white
You wore of old, when the world was gay,
We will wander in woods of the heart’s delight
The whole of the Sunday holiday.
Come, we will sit by the wayside inn,
Come, and your song will gain force to fly,
Dipping its wing in the clear and thin
Wine, as of old, ere it scale the sky.
Musette, who had scarcely forgotten withal
One beautiful dawn of the new year’s best,
Returned at the end of the carnival,
A flown bird, to a forsaken nest.
Ah faithless and fair! I embrace her yet,
With no heart-beat, and with never a sigh;
And Musette, no longer the old Musette,
Declares that I am no longer I.
Farewell, my dear that was once so dear,
Dead with the death of our latest love;
Our youth is laid in its sepulchre,
The calendar stands for a stone above.
’Tis only in searching the dust of the days,
The ashes of all old memories,
That we find the key of the woodland ways
That lead to the place of our paradise.
THE THREE CAPTAINS.
ALL beneath the white-rose tree
Walks a lady fair to see,
She is as white as the snows,
She is as fair as the day:
From her father’s garden close
Three knights have ta’en her away.
He has ta’en her by the hand,
The youngest of the three—
‘Mount and ride, my bonnie bride,
On my white horse with me.’
And ever they rode, and better rode,
Till they came to Senlis town,
The hostess she looked hard at them
As they were lighting down.
‘And are ye here by force,’ she said,
‘Or are ye here for play?
From out my father’s garden close
Three knights me stole away.
‘And fain would I win back,’ she said,
‘The weary way I come;
And fain would see my father dear,
And fain go maiden home.’
‘Oh, weep not, lady fair,’ said she,
‘You shall win back,’ she said,
‘For you shall take this draught from me
Will make you lie for dead.’
‘Come in and sup, fair lady,’ they said,
‘Come busk ye and be bright;
It is with three bold captains
That ye must be this night.’
When they had eaten well and drunk,
She fell down like one slain:
‘Now, out and alas! for my bonny may
Shall live no more again.’
‘Within her father’s garden stead
There are three white lilies;
With her body to the lily bed,
With her soul to Paradise.’
They bore her to her father’s house,
They bore her all the three,
They laid her in her father’s close,
Beneath the white-rose tree.
She had not lain a day, a day,
A day but barely three,
When the may awakes, ‘Oh, open, father,
Oh, open the door for me.
‘’Tis I have lain for dead, father,
Have lain the long days three,
That I might maiden come again
To my mother and to thee.’
THE BRIDGE OF DEATH.
‘THE dance is on the Bridge of Death
And who will dance with me?’
‘There’s never a man of living men
Will dare to dance with thee.’
Now Margaret’s gone within her bower
Put ashes in her hair,
And sackcloth on her bonny breast,
And on her shoulders bare.
There came a knock to her bower door,
And blithe she let him in;
It was her brother from the wars,
The dearest of her kin.
‘Set gold within your hair, Margaret,
Set gold within your hair,
And gold upon your girdle band,
And on your breast so fair.
‘For we are bidden to dance to-night,
We may not bide away;
This one good night, this one fair night,
Before the red new day.’
‘Nay, no gold for my head brother,
Nay, no gold for my hair;
It is the ashes and dust of earth
That you and I must wear.
‘No gold work for my girdle band,
No gold work on my feet;
But ashes of the fire, my love,
But dust that the serpents eat.’
* * * * * *
They danced across the bridge of Death,
Above the black water,
And the marriage-bell was tolled in hell
For the souls of him and her.
LE PÈRE SÉVÈRE.
KING LOUIS’ DAUGHTER.
BALLAD OF THE ISLE OF FRANCE.
KING LOUIS on his bridge is he,
He holds his daughter on his knee.
She asks a husband at his hand
That is not worth a rood of land.
‘Give up your lover speedily,
Or you within the tower must lie.’
‘Although I must the prison dree,
I will not change my love for thee.
‘I will not change my lover fair
Not for the mother that me bare.
‘I will not change my true lover
For friends, or for my father dear.’
‘Now where are all my pages keen,
And where are all my serving men?
‘My daughter must lie in the tower alway,
Where she shall never see the day.’
* * * * * *
Seven long years are past and gone
And there has seen her never one.
At ending of the seventh year
Her father goes to visit her.
‘My child, my child, how may you be?’
‘O father, it fares ill with me.
‘My feet are wasted in the mould,
The worms they gnaw my side so cold.’
‘My child, change your love speedily
Or you must still in prison lie.’
‘’Tis better far the cold to dree
Than give my true love up for thee.’
THE MILK WHITE DOE.
IT was a mother and a maid
That walked the woods among,
And still the maid went slow and sad,
And still the mother sung.
‘What ails you, daughter Margaret?
Why go you pale and wan?
Is it for a cast of bitter love,
Or for a false leman?’
‘It is not for a false lover
That I go sad to see;
But it is for a weary life
Beneath the greenwood tree.
‘For ever in the good daylight
A maiden may I go,
But always on the ninth midnight
I change to a milk white doe.
‘They hunt me through the green forest
With hounds and hunting men;
And ever it is my fair brother
That is so fierce and keen.’
* * * * *
‘Good-morrow, mother.’ ‘Good-morrow, son;
Where are your hounds so good?’
Oh, they are hunting a white doe
Within the glad greenwood.
‘And three times have they hunted her,
And thrice she’s won away;
The fourth time that they follow her
That white doe they shall slay.’
* * * * * *
Then out and spoke the forester,
As he came from the wood,
‘Now never saw I maid’s gold hair
Among the wild deer’s blood.
‘And I have hunted the wild deer
In east lands and in west;
And never saw I white doe yet
That had a maiden’s breast.’
Then up and spake her fair brother,
Between the wine and bread,
‘Behold, I had but one sister,
And I have been her dead.’
‘But ye must bury my sweet sister
With a stone at her foot and her head,
And ye must cover her fair body
With the white roses and red.’
And I must out to the greenwood,
The roof shall never shelter me;
And I shall lie for seven long years
On the grass below the hawthorn tree.
A LADY OF HIGH DEGREE.
I be pareld most of prise,
I ride after the wild fee.
* * * * *
WILL ye that I should sing
Of the love of a goodly thing,
Was no vilein’s may?
’Tis sung of a knight so free,
Under the olive tree,
Singing this lay.
Her weed was of samite fine,
Her mantle of white ermine,
Green silk her hose;
Her shoon with silver gay,
Her sandals flowers of May,
Laced small and close.
Her belt was of fresh spring buds,
Set with gold clasps and studs,
Fine linen her shift;
Her purse it was of love,
Her chain was the flower thereof,
And Love’s gift.
Upon a mule she rode,
The selle was of brent gold,
The bits of silver made;
Three red rose trees there were
That overshadowed her,
For a sun shade.
She riding on a day,
Knights met her by the way,
They did her grace;
‘Fair lady, whence be ye?’
‘France it is my countrie,
I come of a high race.
‘My sire is the nightingale,
That sings, making his wail,
In the wild wood, clear;
The mermaid is mother to me,
That sings in the salt sea,
In the ocean mere.’
‘Ye come of a right good race,
And are born of a high place,
And of high degree;
Would to God that ye were
Given unto me, being fair,
My lady and love to be.’
LOST FOR A ROSE’S SAKE.
I LAVED my hands,
By the water side;
With the willow leaves
My hands I dried.
The nightingale sung
On the bough of the tree;
Sing, sweet nightingale,
It is well with thee.
Thou hast heart’s delight,
I have sad heart’s sorrow
For a false false maid
That will wed to-morrow.
’Tis all for a rose,
That I gave her not,
And I would that it grew
In the garden plot.
And I would the rose-tree
Were still to set,
That my love Marie
Might love me yet.
BALLADS OF MODERN GREECE.
THE BRIGAND’S GRAVE.
THE moon came up above the hill,
The sun went down the sea;
Go, maids, and fetch the well-water,
But, lad, come here to me.
Gird on my jack and my old sword,
For I have never a son;
And you must be the chief of all
When I am dead and gone.
But you must take my old broad sword,
And cut the green bough of the tree,
And strew the green boughs on the ground
To make a soft death bed for me.
And you must bring the holy priest
That I may sained be;
For I have lived a roving life
Fifty years under the greenwood tree.
And you shall make a grave for me,
And make it deep and wide;
That I may turn about and dream
With my old gun by my side.
And leave a window to the east,
And the swallows will bring the spring;
And all the merry month of May
The nightingales will sing.
THE SUDDEN BRIDAL.
IT was a maid lay sick of love,
All for a leman fair;
And it was three of her bower-maidens
That came to comfort her.
The first she bore a blossomed branch,
The second an apple brown,
The third she had a silk kerchief,
And still her tears ran down.
The first she mocked, the second she laughed—
‘We have loved lemans fair,
We made our hearts like the iron stone
Had little teen or care.’
‘If ye have loved ’twas a false false love,
And an ill leman was he;
But her true love had angel’s eyes,
And as fair was his sweet body.
And I will gird my green kirtle,
And braid my yellow hair,
And I will over the high hills
And bring her love to her.’
‘Nay, if you braid your yellow hair,
You’ll twine my love from me.’
‘Now nay, now nay, my lady good,
That ever this should be!’
‘When you have crossed the western hills
My true love you shall meet,
With a green flag blowing over him,
And green grass at his feet.’
She has crossed over the high hills,
And the low hills between,
And she has found the may’s leman
Beneath a flag of green.
’Twas four and twenty ladies fair
Were sitting on the grass;
But he has turned and looked on her,
And will not let her pass.
‘You’ve maidens here, and maidens there,
And loves through all the land;
But what have you made of the lady fair
You gave the rose-garland?’
She was so harsh and cold of love,
To me gave little grace;
She wept if I but touched her hand,
Or kissed her bonny face.
‘Yea, crows shall build in the eagle’s nest,
The hawk the dove shall wed,
Before my old true love and I
Meet in one wedding bed.’
When she had heard his bitter rede
That was his old true love,
She sat and wept within her bower,
And moaned even as a dove.
She rose up from her window seat,
And she looked out to see;
Her love came riding up the street
With a goodly company.
He was clad on with Venice gold,
Wrought upon cramoisie,
His yellow hair shone like the sun
About his fair body.
‘Now shall I call him blossomed branch
That has ill knots therein?
Or shall I call him basil plant,
That comes of an evil kin?
‘Oh, I shall give him goodly names,
My sword of damask fine;
My silver flower, my bright-winged bird,
Where go you, lover mine?’
‘I go to marry my new bride,
That I bring o’er the down;
And you shall be her bridal maid,
And hold her bridal crown.’
‘When you come to the bride chamber
Where your fair maiden is,
You’ll tell her I was fair of face,
But never tell her this,
‘That still my lips were lips of love,
My kiss love’s spring-water,
That my love was a running spring,
My breast a garden fair.
‘And you have kissed the lips of love
And drained the well-water,
And you have spoiled the running spring,
And robbed the fruits so fair.’
* * * * * *
‘Now he that will may scatter nuts,
And he may wed that will;
But she that was my old true love
Shall be my true love still.’
GREEK FOLK SONGS.
IANNOULA.
ALL the maidens were merry and wed
All to lovers so fair to see;
The lover I took to my bridal bed
He is not long for love and me.
I spoke to him and he noting said,
I gave him bread of the wheat so fine,
He did not eat of the bridal bread,
He did not drink of the bridal wine.
I made him a bed was soft and deep,
I made him a bed to sleep with me;
‘Look on me once before you sleep,
And look on the flower of my fair body.
‘Flowers of April, and fresh May-dew,
Dew of April and buds of May;
Two white blossoms that bud for you,
Buds that blossom before the day.’
THE TELL-TALES.
ALL in the mirk midnight when I was beside you,
Who has seen, who has heard, what was said, what was done?
’Twas the night and the light of the stars that espied you,
The fall of the moon, and the dawning begun.
’Tis a swift star has fallen, a star that discovers
To the sea what the green sea has told to the oars,
And the oars to the sailors, and they of us lovers
Go singing this song at their mistress’s doors.
AVE.
TWILIGHT ON TWEED.
THREE crests against the saffron sky,
Beyond the purple plain,
The dear remembered melody
Of Tweed once more again.
Wan water from the border hills,
Dear voice from the old years,
Thy distant music lulls and stills,
And moves to quiet tears.
Like a loved ghost thy fabled flood
Fleets through the dusky land;
Where Scott, come home to die, has stood,
My feet returning stand.
A mist of memory broods and floats,
The border waters flow;
The air is full of ballad notes,
Borne out of long ago.
Old songs that sung themselves to me,
Sweet through a boy’s day dream,
While trout below the blossom’d tree
Plashed in the golden stream.
* * * * * *
Twilight, and Tweed, and Eildon Hill,
Fair and thrice fair you be;
You tell me that the voice is still
That should have welcomed me.
ONE FLOWER.
“Up there shot a lily red,
With a patch of earth from the land of the dead,
For she was strong in the land of the dead.”
* * * * *
WHEN autumn suns are soft, and sea winds moan,
And golden fruits make sweet the golden air,
In gardens where the apple blossoms were,
In these old springs before I walked alone;
I pass among the pathways overgrown,
Of all the former flowers that kissed your feet
Remains a poppy, pallid from the heat,
A wild poppy that the wild winds have sown.
Alas! the rose forgets your hands of rose;
The lilies slumber in the lily bed;
’Tis only poppies in the dreamy close,
The changeless, windless garden of the dead,
You tend, with buds soft as your kiss that lies
In over happy dreams, upon mine eyes.
METEMPSYCHOSIS.
I SHALL not see thee, nay, but I shall know
Perchance, thy grey eyes in another’s eyes,
Shall guess thy curls in gracious locks that flow
On purest brows, yea, and the swift surmise
Shall follow, and track, and find thee in disguise
Of all sad things, and fair, where sunsets glow,
When through the scent of heather, faint and low,
The weak wind whispers to the day that dies.
From all sweet art, and out of all ‘old rhyme,’
Thine eyes and lips are light and song to me;
The shadows of the beauty of all time,
Carven and sung, are only shapes of thee;
Alas, the shadowy shapes! ah, sweet my dear
Shall life or death bring all thy being near?
LOST IN HADES.
I DREAMED that somewhere in the shadowy place,
Grief of farewell unspoken was forgot
In welcome, and regret remembered not;
And hopeless prayer accomplished turned to praise
On lips that had been songless many days;
Hope had no more to hope for, and desire
And dread were overpast, in white attire
New born we walked among the new world’s ways.
Then from the press of shades a spirit threw
Towards me such apples as these gardens bear;
And turning, I was ‘ware of her, and knew
And followed her fleet voice and flying hair,—
Followed, and found her not, and seeking you
I found you never, dearest, anywhere.
A STAR IN THE NIGHT.
THE perfect piteous beauty of thy face,
Is like a star the dawning drives away;
Mine eyes may never see in the bright day
Thy pallid halo, thy supernal grace:
But in the night from forth the silent place
Thou comest, dim in dreams, as doth a stray
Star of the starry flock that in the grey
Is seen, and lost, and seen a moment’s space.
And as the earth at night turns to a star,
Loved long ago, and dearer than the sun,
So in the spiritual place afar,
At night our souls are mingled and made one,
And wait till one night fall, and one dawn rise,
That brings no noon too splendid for your eyes.
A SUNSET ON YARROW.
THE wind and the day had lived together,
They died together, and far away
Spoke farewell in the sultry weather,
Out of the sunset, over the heather,
The dying wind and the dying day.
Far in the south, the summer levin
Flushed, a flame in the grey soft air:
We seemed to look on the hills of heaven;
You saw within, but to me ’twas given
To see your face, as an angel’s, there.
Never again, ah surely never
Shall we wait and watch, where of old we stood,
The low good-night of the hill and the river,
The faint light fade, and the wan stars quiver,
Twain grown one in the solitude.
HESPEROTHEN.
BY the example of certain Grecian mariners, who, being safely returned
from the war about Troy, leave yet again their old lands and gods,
seeking they know not what, and choosing neither to abide in the fair
Phæacian island, nor to dwell and die with the Sirens, at length end
miserably in a desert country by the sea, is set forth the _Vanity of
Melancholy_. And by the land of Phæacia is to be understood the place of
Art and of fair Pleasures; and by Circe’s Isle, the places of bodily
delights, whereof men, falling aweary, attain to Eld, and to the darkness
of that age. Which thing Master Françoys Rabelais feigned, under the
similitude of the Isle of the Macræones.
THE SEEKERS FOR PHÆACIA.
THERE is a land in the remotest day,
Where the soft night is born, and sunset dies;
The eastern shores see faint tides fade away,
That wash the lands where laughter, tears, and sighs,
Make life,—the lands beneath the blue of common skies.