[1]Aristotle.
[1]Aristotle.
HYMN TO THE WINDSThe winds are invoked by the winnowers of corn.Du Bellay, 1550.To you, troop so fleet,That with winged wandering feetThrough the wide world pass,And with soft murmuringToss the green shades of springIn woods and grass,Lily and violetI 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 momWe fan the gold o' the cornIn the sun's heat.
A VOW TO HEAVENLY VENUS.Du Bellay, 1550.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 isWe 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.
APRIL.Remy Belleau, 1560.April, pride of woodland ways,Of glad days,April, bringing hope of primeTo the young flowers that beneathTheir bud sheathAre guarded in their tender time;April, pride of fields that beGreen and free,That in fashion glad and gayStud with flowers red and blue,Every hue,Their jewelled spring array;April, pride of murmuringWinds of spring,That beneath the winnowed airTrap with subtle nets and sweetFlora's feet,Flora's feet, the fleet and fair;April, by thy hand caressed,From her breastNature scatters everywhereHandfuls of all sweet perfumes,Buds and blooms,Making faint the earth and air.April, joy of the green hours,Clothes with flowersOver all her locks of goldMy sweet Lady; and her breastWith the blestBuds of summer manifold.April, with thy gracious wiles,Like the smiles,Smiles of Venus; and thy breathLike her breath, the Gods' delight,(From their heightThey take the happy air beneath;)It is thou that, of thy grace,From their placeIn the far-off isles dost bringSwallows over earth and sea,Glad to beMessengers of thee, and Spring.Daffodil and eglantine,And woodbine,Lily, violet, and rosePlentiful 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 noteChime and float,Woodland music through the glade.April, all to welcome thee,Spring sets freeAncient flames, and with low breathWakes the ashes grey and oldThat the coldChilled within our hearts to death.Thou beholdest in the warmHours, the swarmOf the thievish bees, that fliesEvermore from bloom to bloomFor perfume,Hid away in tiny thighs.Her cool shadows May can boast,Fruits almostRipe, and gifts of fertile dew,Manna-sweet and honey-sweet,That completeHer flower garland fresh and new.Nay, but I will give my praiseTo these days,Named with the glad name of her[1]That from out the foam o' the seaCame to beSudden light on earth and air.
OF HIS LADY'S OLD AGE.Ronsard, 1550.When you are very old, at eveningYou '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 fore done,But wakens at my name, and calls you oneBlest, to be held in long remembering.I shall be low beneath the earth, and laidOn 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 't is called to-day.
SHADOWS OF HIS LADY.Jacques Tahureau, 1527-1555.Within the sand of what far river liesThe gold that gleams in tresses of my Love?What highest circle of the Heavens aboveIs jewelled with such stars as are her eyes?And where is the rich sea whose coral viesWith her red lips, that cannot kiss enough?What dawn-lit garden knew the rose, whereofThe 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 beThe far-off splendid semblance of my maid!
MOONLIGHT.Jacques Tahureau, 1527-1555.The high Midnight was garlanding her headWith 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 jargonedA 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 embraceAnd 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.
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 closeThe tomb's mouth unawares?"The Rose said to the Grave.The Rose said, "In the shadeFrom the dawn's tears is madeA perfume faint and strange,Amber and honey sweet.""And all the spirits fleetDo suffer a sky-change,More strangely than the dew,To God's own angels new,"The Grave said to the Rose.
THE BIRTH OF BUTTERFLIES.VICTOR HUGO.He dawn is smiling on the dew that coversThe tearful roses; lo, the little loversThat kiss the buds, and all the flutteringsIn 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 laysThat 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 writeFilled with intoxication of delight,Written in April, and before the May timeShredded and flown, play things for the wind's playtime,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 skiesFlutter, and float, and change to Butterflies.
AN OLD TUNE.GÉRARD DE NERVAL.There is an air for which I would disownMozart'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 beholdA 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.
SPRING IN THE STUDENT'S QUARTER.HENRI MURGER.Winter is passing, and the bellsFor ever with their silver layMurmur a melody that tellsOf April and of Easter day.High in the sweet air the light vane sets,The weathercocks all southward twirl;A son will buy her violetsAnd 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 seemedThat the wind wafted into air.Pilgrims from ocean and far islesSee where the east is reddening,The flocks that fly a thousand milesFrom 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 knowThe shoot and sap of lusty springMy neighbour of a year agoHer 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 Gavami.
SPRING.(After Meleager.)Now the bright crocus flames, and nowThe slim narcissus takes the rain,And, straying o'er the mountain's brow,The daffodilies bud again.The thousand blossoms wax and waneOn wold, and heath, and fragrant bough;But fairer than the flowers art thou,Than any growth of hill or plain.Ye gardens, cast your leafy crown,That my Love's feet may tread it down,Like lilies on the lilies set;My Love, whose lips are softer farThan drowsy poppy petals are,And sweeter than the violet!
OLD LOVES.HENRI MURGER.Louise, have you forgotten yetThe 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-treesWe sat; have you forgotten, love?Do you remember, love Louise?Marie, have you forgotten yetThe loving barter that we made?The rings we changed, the suns that set,The woods fulfilled with sun and shade?The fountains that were musicalBy many an ancient trysting tree—Marie, have you forgotten all?Do you remember, love Marie?Christine, do you remember yetYour room with scents and roses gay?My garret—near the sky't was set—The April hours, the nights of May?The clear calm nights—the stars aboveThat whispered they were fairest seenThrough 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 awayIn southern suns to bloom again.Alas I for one and all of us—Marie, Louise, Christine forget;Our bower of love is ruinous,And I alone remember yet.
IANNOULA.ROMAIC FOLK-SONG.All the maidens were merry and wedAll to lovers so fair to see;The lover I took to my bridal bedHe is not long for love and me.I spoke to him and he nothing 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 MILK WHITE DOE.FRENCH VOLKS-LIED.It was a mother and a maidThat 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 loverThat I go sad to see;But it is for a weary lifeBeneath the greenwood tree."For ever in the good daylightA maiden may I go,But always on the ninth midnightI change to a milk white doe."They hunt me through the green forestWith hounds and hunting men;And ever it is my fair brotherThat is so fierce and keen."* * * * * * * * * * * * *"Good-morrow, mother." "Good-morrow, son;Where are your hounds so good?""Oh, they are hunting a white doeWithin the glad greenwood."And three times have they hunted her,And thrice she's won away;The fourth time that they follow herThat white doe they shall slay."* * * * * * * * * * * * *Then out and spoke the forester,As he came from the wood,"Now never saw I maid's gold hairAmong the wild deer's blood."And I have hunted the wild deerIn east lands and in west;And never saw I white doe yetThat 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 sisterWith a stone at her foot and her head,And ye must cover her fair bodyWith 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 yearsOn the grass below the hawthorn tree."
A LA BELLE HÉLÈNE.(After Ronsard.)More closely than the clinging vineAbout the wedded tree,Clasp thou thine arms, ah, mistress mine!About the heart of me.Or seem to sleep, and stoop your faceSoft on my sleeping eyes,Breathe in your life, your heart, your grace,Through me, in kissing wise.Bow down, bow down your face, I pray,To me, that swoon to death,Breathe back the life you kissed away,Breathe back your kissing breath.So by your eyes I swear and say,My mighty oath and sure,From your kind arms no maiden mayMy loving heart allure.I'll bear your yoke, that's light enough,And to the Elysian plain,When we are dead of love, my love,One boat shall bear us twain.They 'll flock around you, fleet and fair,All true loves that have been,And you of all the shadows there,Shall be the shadow queen.Ah shadow-loves, and shadow-lips!Ah, while 't is called to-day,Love me, my love, for summer slips,And August ebbs away.
THE BURIAL OF MOLIÈRE.(AFTER J. TRUFFIER.)Dead—he is dead! The rouge has left a traceOn that thin cheek where shone, perchance, a tear,Even while the people laughed that held him dearBut yesterday. He died,—and not in grace,And many a black-robed caitiff starts apaceTo slander him whoseTartuffemade them fear,And gold must win a passage for his bier,And bribe the crowd that guards his resting-place.Ah, Molière, for that last time of all,Man's hatred broke upon thee, and went by,And did but make more fair thy funeral.Though in the dark they hid thee stealthily,Thy coffin had the cope of night for pall,For torch, the stars along the windy sky!
BEFORE THE SNOW.(AFTER ALBERT GLATIGNY.)The winter is upon us, not the snow,The hills are etched on the horizon bare,The skies are iron grey, a bitter air,The meagre cloudlets shudder to and fro.One yellow leaf the listless wind doth blow,Like some strange butterfly, unclassed and rare.Your footsteps ring in frozen alleys, whereThe black trees seem to shiver as you go.Beyond lie church and steeple, with their oldAnd rusty vanes that rattle as they veer,A sharper gust would shake them from their hold,Yet up that path, in summer of the year,And past that melancholy pile we strolledTo pluck wild strawberries, with merry cheer.
THE CLOUD CHORUS.(FROM ARISTOPHANES.)Socrates speaks.Hither, come hither, ye Clouds renowned, and unveil yourselves here;Come, though ye dwell on the sacred crests of Olympian snow,Or whether ye dance with the Nereid choir in the gardens clear,Or whether your golden urns are dipped in Nile's overflow.Or whether you dwell by Mæotis mereOr the snows of Mimas, arise! appear!And hearken to us, and accept our gifts ere ye rise and go.The Clouds sing.Immortal Clouds from the echoing shoreOf the father of streams, from the sounding sea.Dewy and fleet, let us rise and soar.Dewy and gleaming, and fleet are we!Let us look on the tree-clad mountain crest,On the sacred earth where the fruits rejoice,On the waters that murmur east and west,On the tumbling sea with his moaning voice,For unwearied glitters the Eye of the Air,And the bright rays gleam;Then cast we our shadows of mist, and fareIn our deathless shapes to glance everywhereFrom the height of the heaven, on the land and air,And the Ocean stream.Let us on, ye Maidens that bring the Rain,Let us gaze on Pallas' citadel,In the country of Cecrops, fair and dearThe mystic land of the holy cell,Where the Rites unspoken securely dwell,And the gifts of the Gods that know not stainAnd a people of mortals that know not fear.For the temples tall, and the statues fair,And the feasts of the Gods are holiest there,The feasts of Immortals, the chaplets of flowersAnd the Bromian mirth at the coming of spring,And the musical voices that fill the hours,And the dancing feet of the Maids that sing!
[1]Aphrodite—Avril.
[1]Aphrodite—Avril.