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 (4)
That from out the foam o' the sea
Came to be
Sudden light on earth and air.
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.
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
lovingbarter 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.
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 all 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.'
IANNOULA.
Romaic folk-song.
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 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 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.'
HELIODORE.
(Meleager.)
Pour wine, and cry again, again, again!
TO HELIODORE!
And
mingle the sweet word ye call in vain
With that ye pour!
And bring to me her
wreath of yesterday
That's dank with myrrh;
HESTERNAE ROSAE, ah my friends, but they
Remember her!
Lo the kind roses, loved of lovers, weep
As who repine,
For if on any breast they see her sleep
It is not mine!
THE PROPHET.
(Antiphilus.)
I knew it in your
childish grace