Ballads, Lyrics, and Poems of Old France Part 3

MOONLIGHT.

JACQUES TAHUREAU, 15271555.

THE high Midnight was garlanding her head With many a s.h.i.+ning star in s.h.i.+ning skies, And, of her grace, a slumber on mine eyes, And, after sorrow, quietness was shed.

Far in dim fields cicalas jargoned 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.

Pa.s.sERAT, 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 br.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 s.p.a.ce 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 br.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 G.o.d's own angels new,'

The Grave said to the Rose.

THE GENESIS OF b.u.t.tERFLIES.

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 m.u.f.fled 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 b.u.t.terflies 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 b.u.t.terflies.

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, Pa.s.s, pa.s.s 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 gla.s.s; Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers, That bathe the castle bas.e.m.e.nt as they pa.s.s.

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!