Ballads, Lyrics, and Poems of Old France Part 12

SYLVIE ET AUReLIE.

IN MEMORY OF GeRARD DE NERVAL.

TWO loves there were, and one was born Between the sunset and the rain; Her singing voice went through the corn, Her dance was woven 'neath the thorn, On gra.s.s the fallen blossoms stain; And suns may set, and moons may wane, But this love comes no more again.

There were two loves and one made white Thy singing lips, and golden hair; Born of the city's mire and light, The shame and splendour of the night, She trapped and fled thee unaware; Not through the lamplight and the rain Shalt thou behold this love again.

Go forth and seek, by wood and hill, Thine ancient love of dawn and dew; There comes no voice from mere or rill, Her dance is over, fallen still The ballad burdens that she knew; And thou must wait for her in vain, Till years bring back thy youth again.

That other love, afield, afar Fled the light love, with lighter feet.

Nay, though thou seek where gravesteads are, And flit in dreams from star to star, That dead love shalt thou never meet, Till through bleak dawn and blowing rain Thy fled soul find her soul again.

A LOST PATH.

Plotinus, the Greek philosopher, had a certain proper mode of ecstasy, whereby, as Porphyry saith, his soul, becoming free from his deathly flesh, was made one with the Spirit that is in the World.

ALAS, the path is lost, we cannot leave Our bright, our clouded life, and pa.s.s away As through strewn clouds, that stain the quiet eve, To heights remoter of the purer day.

The soul may not, returning whence she came, Bathe herself deep in Being, and forget The joys that fever, and the cares that fret, Made once more one with the eternal flame That breathes in all things ever more the same.

She would be young again, thus drinking deep Of her old life; and this has been, men say, But this we know not, who have only sleep To soothe us, sleep more terrible than day, Where dead delights, and fair lost faces stray, To make us weary at our wakening; And of that long-lost path to the Divine We dream, as some Greek shepherd erst might sing, Half credulous, of easy Proserpine And of the lands that lie 'beneath the day's decline.'

THE SHADE OF HELEN.

Some say that Helen went never to Troy, but abode in Egypt; for the G.o.ds, having made in her semblance a woman out of clouds and shadows, sent the same to be wife to Paris. For this shadow then the Greeks and Trojans slew each other.

WHY from the quiet hollows of the hills, And extreme meeting place of light and shade, Wherein soft rains fell slowly, and became Clouds among sister clouds, where fair spent beams And dying glories of the sun would dwell, Why have they whom I know not, nor may know, Strange hands, unseen and ruthless, fas.h.i.+oned me, And borne me from the silent shadowy hills, Hither, to noise and glow of alien life, To harsh and clamorous swords, and sound of war?

One speaks unto me words that would be sweet, Made harsh, made keen with love that knows me not, And some strange force, within me or around, Makes answer, kiss for kiss, and sigh for sigh, And somewhere there is fever in the halls, That troubles me, for no such trouble came To vex the cool far hollows of the hills.

The foolish folk crowd round me, and they cry, That house, and wife, and lands, and all Troy town, Are little to lose, if they may keep me here, And see me flit, a pale and silent shade, Among the streets bereft, and helpless shrines.

At other hours another life seems mine, Where one great river runs unswollen of rain, By pyramids of unremembered kings, And homes of men obedient to the Dead.

There dark and quiet faces come and go Around me, then again the shriek of arms, And all the turmoil of the Ilian men.

What are they? Even shadows such as I.

What make they? Even this-the sport of G.o.ds- The sport of G.o.ds, however free they seem.

Ah would the game were ended, and the light, The blinding light, and all too mighty suns, Withdrawn, and I once more with sister shades, Unloved, forgotten, mingled with the mist, Dwelt in the hollows of the shadowy hills.

Ah, would 't were the cloud's playtime, when the sun Clothes us in raiment of a rosy flame, And through the sky we flit, and gather grey, Like men that leave their golden youth behind, And through their wind-driven ways they gather grey, And we like them grow wan, and the chill East Receives us, as the Earth accepts all men,- But _we_ await the dawn of a new day.

SONNETS TO POETS.

JACQUES TAHUREAU. 1530.

AH thou! that, undeceived and unregretting, Saw'st Death so near thee on the flowery way, And with no sigh that life was near the setting, Took'st the delight and dalliance of the day, Happy thou wert, to live and pa.s.s away Ere life or love had done thee any wrong; Ere thy wreath faded, or thy locks grew grey, Or summer came to lull thine April song, Sweet as all shapes of sweet things unfulfilled, Buds bloomless, and the broken violet, The first spring days, the sounds and scents thereof; So clear thy fire of song, so early chilled, So brief, so bright thy life that gaily met Death, for thy Death came hand in hand with Love.

FRANcOIS VILLON. 1450.

List, all that love light mirth, light tears, and all That know the heart of shameful loves, or pure; That know delights depart, desires endure, A fevered tribe of ghosts funereal, Widowed of dead delights gone out of call; List, all that deem the glory of the rose Is brief as last year's suns, or last year's snows The new suns melt from off the sundial.

All this your master Villon knew and sung; Despised delights, and faint foredone desire; And shame, a deathless worm, a quenchless fire; And laughter from the heart's last sorrow wrung, When half-repentance but makes evil whole, And prayer that cannot help wears out the soul.

PIERRE RONSARD. 1560.

MASTER, I see thee with the locks of grey, Crowned by the Muses with the laurel-wreath; I see the roses hiding underneath, Ca.s.sandra's gift; she was less dear than they.

Thou, Master, first hast roused the lyric lay, The sleeping song that the dead years bequeath, Hast sung sweet answer to the songs that breathe Through ages, and through ages far away.

Yea, and in thee the pulse of ancient pa.s.sion Leaped, and the nymphs amid the spring-water Made bare their lovely limbs in the old fas.h.i.+on, And birds' song in the branches was astir.

Ah, but thy songs are sad, thy roses wan, Thy bees have fed on yews Sardinian.

GeRARD DE NERVAL.

OF all that were thy prisons-ah, untamed, Ah, light and sacred soul!-none holds thee now; No wall, no bar, no body of flesh, but thou Art free and happy in the lands unnamed, About whose gates, with weary wings and maimed, Thou most wert wont to linger, entering there A moment, and returning rapt, with fair Tidings that men or heeded not or blamed; And they would smile and wonder, seeing where Thou stood'st, to watch light leaves, or clouds, or wind, Dreamily murmuring a ballad air, Caught from the Valois peasants; dost thou find Old prophecies fulfilled now, old tales true In the new world, where all things are made new?

THE DEATH OF MIRANDOLA. 1494.

'The Queen of Heaven appeared, comforting him and promising that he should not utterly die.'-THOMAS MORE, _Life of Piens, Earl of Mirandola_.

STRANGE lilies came with autumn; new and old Were mingling, and the old world pa.s.sed away, And the night gathered, and the shadows grey Dimmed the kind eyes and dimmed the locks of gold, And face beloved of Mirandola.

The Virgin then, to comfort him and stay, Kissed the thin cheek, and kissed the lips acold, The lips unkissed of women many a day.

Nor she alone, for queens of the old creed, Like rival queens that tended Arthur, there Were gathered, Venus in her mourning weed, Pallas and Dian; wise, and pure, and fair Was he they mourned, who living did not wrong One altar of its dues of wine and song.