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Down fragrantfleeting waters rosy pale.
TWO SONNETS OF THE SIRENS.

'Les Sirenes estoient tant intimes amies et fidelles compagnes de
Proserpine, qu'elles estoient toujours ensemble. Esmues du juste

deul de la perte de leur chere compagne, et enuyees jusques au
desepoir, elles s'arresterent e la mer Sicilienne, ou par leurs

chants elles attiroient les navigans, mais l'unique fin de la
volupte de leur musique est la Mort.'

Pontus De Tyard, 1570
The Sirens once were maidens innocent

That through the water-meads with Proserpine
Plucked no fire-hearted flowers, but were content

Cool fritillaries and flag-flowers to twine,
With lilies woven and with wet woodbine;

Till once they sought the bright AEtnaean flowers,
And their glad mistress fled from summer hours

With Hades, far from olive, corn, and vine.
And they have sought her all the wide world through

Till many years, and wisdom, and much wrong
Have filled and changed their song, and o'er the blue

Rings deadly sweet the magic of the song,
And whoso hears must listen till he die

Far on the flowery shores of Sicily.
So is it with this singing art of ours,

That once with maids went maidenlike, and played
With woven dances in the poplar-shade,

And all her song was but of lady's bowers
And the returning swallows, and spring flowers,

Till forth to seek a shadow-queen she strayed,
A shadowy land; and now hath overweighed

Her singing chaplet with the snow and showers.
Yes, fair well-water for the bitter brine

She left, and by the margin of life's sea
Sings, and her song is full of the sea's moan,

And wild with dread, and love of Proserpine;
And whoso once has listened to her, he

His whole life long is slave to her alone.
TRANSLATIONS

HYMN TO THE WINDS,
THE WINDS ARE INVOKED BY THE WINNOWERS

OF CORN.
Du Bellay, 1550.

To you, troop so fleet,
That with winged wandering feet,

Through the wide world pass,
And with soft murmuring

Toss the green shades of spring
In woods and grass,

Lily and violet
I 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 mom

We fan the gold o' the corn,
In the sun's heat.

MOONLIGHT.
Jacques Tahureau.

The high Midnight was garlanding her head
With 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 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.

THE GRAVE AND THE ROSE.
Victor Hugo.

The Grave said to the Rose,
'What of the dews of morn,

Love's flower, what end is theirs?'
'And what of souls outworn,

Of them 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 God's own angels new,'
The Grave said to the Rose.

A VOW TO HEAVENLY VENUS.
Du Bellay.

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 is
We 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.

OF HIS LADY'S OLD AGE.
Ronsard.

When you are very old, at evening
You'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 foredone,

But wakens at my name, and calls you one
Blest, to be held in long remembering.

I shall be low beneath the earth, and laid
On 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.

Within the sand of what far river lies
The gold that gleams in tresses of my Love?

What highest circle of the Heavens above
Is jewelled with such stars as are her eyes?

And where is the rich sea whose coral vies
With her red lips, that cannot kiss enough?

What dawn-lit garden knew the rose, whereof
The 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 Sabaean glade?
Oh happy rock and river, sky and sea,

Gardens, and glades Sabaean, all that be
The far-off splendid semblance of my maid!

APRIL.
Remy Belleau, 1560.

April, pride of woodland ways,
Of glad days,

April, bringing hope of prime,
To the young flowers that beneath

Their bud sheath
Are guarded in their tender time;

April, pride of fields that be
Green and free,

That in fashion glad and gay,
Stud with flowers red and blue,

Every hue,
Their jewelled spring array;

April, pride of murmuring
Winds of spring,

That beneath the winnowed air,
Trap with subtle nets and sweet

Flora's feet,
Flora's feet, the fleet and fair;

April, by thy hand caressed,
From her breast,

Nature scatters everywhere
Handfuls of all sweet perfumes,

Buds and blooms,
Making faint the earth and air.

April, joy of the green hours,
Clothes with flowers

Over all her locks of gold
My sweet Lady; and her breast

With the blest
Buds of summer manifold.

April, with thy gracious wiles,
Like the smiles,

Smiles of Venus; and thy breath
Like her breath, the gods' delight,

(From their height
They take the happy air beneath;)

It is thou that, of thy grace,
From their place

In the far-off isles dost bring
Swallows over earth and sea,

Glad to be
Messengers of thee, and Spring.

Daffodil and eglantine,
And woodbine,

Lily, violet, and rose
Plentiful in April fair,

To the air,
Their pretty petals to unclose.

Nightingales ye now may hear,
Piercing clear,

Singing in the deepest shade;
Many and many a babbled note

Chime and float,
Woodland music through the glade.

April, all to welcome thee,
Spring sets free

Ancient flames, and with low breath
Wakes the ashes grey and old

That the cold
Chilled within our hearts to death.

Thou beholdest in the warm


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