II.
DIEU! QU’IL LA FAIT BON REGARDER! Ye Gods! How good on her to gaze, All-gracious, fayre and sweet of mien; Such virtues be in her y-seen All men stand ready with their praise. Who then could weary of her ways? Her beautie flowereth ever green; Ye Gods! How good on her to gaze, All-gracious, fayre and sweet of mien. This side or yon of Ocean’s maze Nor dame nor damozel, I ween So wholly parfaict yet hath been— A dream, to think on her always: Ye Gods! How good on her to gaze!...
III.
LES FOURRIERS D’ESTE SONT VENUS. Ye maides in waiting all be here Of Summertide, to deck her hall, To hang her arras, woven all With golden flowers and verdure clear; To stretch her carpet far and near Of soft green moss o’er stone and wall; Ye maides in waiting all be here Of Summertide, to deck her hall. Hearts that but late were cold and drear Now (prais’d be God!), their joy recall; Come, come away, with snow-wrapped pall! Out on thee, Winter, old and blear! Ye maides in waiting all be here...
“O Rois qui serez jugÉs À votre tour.”
Banville. O KINGS, who must yourselves be judged one day, Think of the wretched poor that ever stand On Famine’s edge, and pity them! They pray For you and love you; drudging till your land, And, toiling, fill your coffers—they withstand Your enemies; yet damned on earth they fare, Woe infinite and endless pain they bear; Not one there is but knows the keen distress Of cold, of heat, and rain and ceaseless care, For to the poor all things are bitterness. Even as a beast of burden, scourged amain, The wretched peasant lives his hopeless life. Does he but pluck his grapes, or dare refrain An hour from drudging toil, and choose a wife To share the sorrow of his unequal strife,— His lord, a savage bird of prey, draws nigh; Relentless comes, and, saying “Here am I!” Seizes what little he may chance possess. Nothing avails the vassal’s pleading cry, For to the poor all things are bitterness. Pity the wretched jester in your halls! Think on the fisher when the black waves curl Their frothing tongues, and crackling lightning falls On his frail boat! Pity the blue-eyed girl, Lowly and dreaming, as her young hands whirl The droning wheel! Think of a mother’s pain And torment, as she weeps and seeks in vain, Holding her fair dead child in blind distress, To warm its cold heart back to life again. O, to the poor all things are bitterness. Mercy for these thine own, oh Prince, I cry! Peace to thy vassal ’neath his darkened sky, Peace to the pale nun, praying passionless, And to all such as lowly live and die— For to the poor all things are bitterness.
(Villanelle.) She was clad all in blue. A cold colour, you say? Yes, I thought so, that day, And my hopes were but few When I first saw EdmÉe; Now, of azure array I’ve quite altered my view— A cold colour, you say? Is the sky cold in May? How little I knew, When I first saw EdmÉe. All the sweetness there lay In the shade that means “true!”... A cold colour, you say? Ah, my heart’s quite away. The sad moment I rue When I first saw EdmÉe. A cold colour, you say?...
“Sois-moi fidÈle, Ô pauvre habit que j’aime.”
BÉranger. BE ever true to me, thou well-loved coat, For we are growing old together now, These ten long years I’ve brushed thee every day Myself; great Socrates the Sage, I trow Had not done better! And if remorseless Fate Gnaw with sharp tooth that poor, thin cloth of thine, Resist, say I, with calm philosophy, Let us not part, thou dear old friend of mine! How I recall—(for even now I’m bless’d With a good memory!), that glad day of days When first I wore thee! It was at my feast; My friends to crown my glory, sang thy praise. Thy poverty and age that honor me Have not yet made their early love decline— They’re ready still to feast us once again. Let us not part, thou dear old friend of mine! Have I perfumed thee with those floods of musk, Which the vain fop exhales before his glass? Have I exposed thee, waiting audience, To scorn and laughter of the great who pass? Just for a paltry ribbon, all fair wide France Was rent apart, but simply I combine A few sweet wild-flowers for thine ornament. Let us not part, thou dear old friend of mine!... Fear nevermore those days of struggling vain, When the same lowly destiny was ours; Those days of pleasure intermix’d with pain, Of sunny sky o’ercast by April showers. Soon comes the night, for evening shadows fall, And soon forever must I my coat resign. Wait yet a little, together we’ll end it all, And never part, thou dear old friend of mine!...
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