Ah, yes, like thee I fear the throng, Like thee I love the solitude.
O brooklet, let my sorrows past Lie all forgotten in their graves, Till in my thoughts remain at last Only thy peace, thy flowers, thy waves.
The lily by thy margin waits;--
The nightingale, the marguerite;
In shadow here he meditates His nest, his love, his music sweet.
Near thee the self-collected soul Knows naught of error or of crime;Thy waters, murmuring as they roll, Transform his musings into rhyme.
Ah, when, on bright autumnal eves, Pursuing still thy course, shall ILisp the soft shudder of the leaves, And hear the lapwing's plaintive cry?
BARREGES
BY LEFRANC DE POMPIGNAN
I leave you, ye cold mountain chains, Dwelling of warriors stark and frore!
You, may these eyes behold no more, Rave on the horizon of our plains.
Vanish, ye frightful, gloomy views!
Ye rocks that mount up to the clouds!
Of skies, enwrapped in misty shrouds, Impracticable avenues!
Ye torrents, that with might and main Break pathways through the rocky walls, With your terrific waterfalls Fatigue no more my weary brain!
Arise, ye landscapes full of charms, Arise, ye pictures of delight!
Ye brooks, that water in your flight The flowers and harvests of our farms!
You I perceive, ye meadows green, Where the Garonne the lowland fills, Not far from that long chain of hills, With intermingled vales between.
You wreath of smoke, that mounts so high, Methinks from my own hearth must come;With speed, to that beloved home, Fly, ye too lazy coursers, fly!
And bear me thither, where the soul In quiet may itself possess, Where all things soothe the mind's distress, Where all things teach me and console.
WILL EVER THE DEAR DAYS COME BACK AGAIN?
Will ever the dear days come back again, Those days of June, when lilacs were in bloom, And bluebirds sang their sonnets in the gloom Of leaves that roofed them in from sun or rain?
I know not; but a presence will remain Forever and forever in this room, Formless, diffused in air, like a perfume,--A phantom of the heart, and not the brain.
Delicious days! when every spoken word Was like a foot-fall nearer and more near, And a mysterious knocking at the gate Of the heart's secret places, and we heard In the sweet tumult of delight and fear A voice that whispered, "Open, I cannot wait!"AT LA CHAUDEAU
BY XAVIER MARMIER
At La Chaudeau,--'t is long since then:
I was young,--my years twice ten;
All things smiled on the happy boy, Dreams of love and songs of joy, Azure of heaven and wave below, At La Chaudeau.
At La Chaudeau I come back old:
My head is gray, my blood is cold;
Seeking along the meadow ooze, Seeking beside the river Seymouse, The days of my spring-time of long ago At La Chaudeau.
At La Chaudeau nor heart nor brain Ever grows old with grief and pain;A sweet remembrance keeps off age;
A tender friendship doth still assuage The burden of sorrow that one may know At La Chaudeau.
At La Chaudeau, had fate decreed To limit the wandering life I lead, Peradventure I still, forsooth, Should have preserved my fresh green youth, Under the shadows the hill-tops throw At La Chaudeau.
At La Chaudeau, live on, my friends, Happy to be where God intends;And sometimes, by the evening fire, Think of him whose sole desire Is again to sit in the old chateau At La Chaudeau.
A QUIET LIFE.
Let him who will, by force or fraud innate, Of courtly grandeurs gain the slippery height;I, leaving not the home of my delight, Far from the world and noise will meditate.
Then, without pomps or perils of the great, I shall behold the day succeed the night;Behold the alternate seasons take their flight, And in serene repose old age await.
And so, whenever Death shall come to close The happy moments that my days compose, I, full of years, shall die, obscure, alone!
How wretched is the man, with honors crowned, Who, having not the one thing needful found, Dies, known to all, but to himself unknown.
THE WINE OF JURANCON
BY CHARLES CORAN
Little sweet wine of Jurancon, You are dear to my memory still!
With mine host and his merry song, Under the rose-tree I drank my fill.
Twenty years after, passing that way, Under the trellis I found again Mine host, still sitting there au frais, And singing still the same refrain.
The Jurancon, so fresh and bold, Treats me as one it used to know;Souvenirs of the days of old Already from the bottle flow,With glass in hand our glances met;We pledge, we drink.How sour it is Never Argenteuil piquette Was to my palate sour as this!
And yet the vintage was good, in sooth;
The self-same juice, the self-same cask!
It was you, O gayety of my youth, That failed in the autumnal flask!
FRIAR LUBIN
BY CLEMENT MAROT
To gallop off to town post-haste, So oft, the times I cannot tell;To do vile deed, nor feel disgraced,--
Friar Lubin will do it well.
But a sober life to lead, To honor virtue, and pursue it, That's a pious, Christian deed,--Friar Lubin can not do it.
To mingle, with a knowing smile, The goods of others with his own, And leave you without cross or pile, Friar Lubin stands alone.
To say 't is yours is all in vain, If once he lays his finger to it;For as to giving back again, Friar Lubin cannot do it.
With flattering words and gentle tone, To woo and win some guileless maid, Cunning pander need you none,--Friar Lubin knows the trade.
Loud preacheth he sobriety, But as for water, doth eschew it;Your dog may drink it,--but not he;
Friar Lubin cannot do it.
ENVOY
When an evil deed 's to do Friar Lubin is stout and true;Glimmers a ray of goodness through it, Friar Lubin cannot do it.
RONDEL
BY JEAN FROISSART
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Naught see I fixed or sure in thee!
I do not know thee,--nor what deeds are thine:
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Naught see I fixed or sure in thee!
Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine?
Ye who are blessed in loving, tell it me:
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Naught see I permanent or sure in thee!
MY SECRET
BY FELIX ARVERS
