Dear lady, it is true, that last month I have signed
A little scrap of parchment; now myself I find
The master of a piece of ground
Within the smallest bound—
Not, as you heard, a spacious English garden
Covered with flowers and trees, to shrine your bard in—
But of a tiny little vineyard,
Which I have christened "Papilhoto"!
Where, for a chamber, I have but a grotto.
The vine-stocks hang about their boughs,
At other end a screen of hedgerows,
So small they do not half unroll;
A hundred would not make a mile,
Six sheets would cover the whole pile.

Well! as it is, of this I've dreamt for twenty years—
You laugh, Madame, at my great happiness,
Perhaps you'll laugh still more, when it appears,
That when I bought the place, I must confess
There were no fruits,
Though rich in roots;
Nine cherry trees—behold my wood!
Ten rows of vines—my promenade!
A few peach trees; the hazels too;
Of elms and fountains there are two.
How rich I am! My muse is grateful very;
Oh! might I paint? while I the pencil try,
Our country loves the Heavens so bright and cheery.

Here, verdure starts up as we scratch the ground,
Who owns it, strips it into pieces round;
Beneath our sun there's nought but gayest sound.
You tell me, true, that in your Paris hot-house,
You ripen two months sooner 'neath your glass, of course.
What is your fruit? Mostly of water clear,
The heat may redden what your tendrils bear.
But, lady dear, you cannot live on fruits alone while here!
Now slip away your glossy glove
And pluck that ripened peach above,
Then place it in your pearly mouth
And suck it—how it 'lays your drouth—
Melts in your lips like honey of the South!

Dear Madame, in the North you have great sights—
Of churches, castles, theatres of greatest heights;
Your works of art are greater far than here.
But come and see, quite near
The banks of the Garonne, on a sweet summer's day,
All works of God! and then you'll say
No place more beautiful and gay!
You see the rocks in all their velvet greenery;
The plains are always gold; and mossy very,
The valleys, where we breathe the healthy air,
And where we walk on beds of flowers most fair!

The country round your Paris has its flowers and greensward,
But 'tis too grand a dame for me, it is too dull and sad.
Here, thousand houses smile along the river's stream;
Our sky is bright, it laughs aloud from morn to e'en.
Since month of May, when brightest weather bounds
For six months, music through the air resounds—
A thousand nightingales the shepherd's ears delight:
All sing of Love—Love which is new and bright.
Your Opera, surprised, would silent hearken,
When day for night has drawn aside its curtain,
Under our heavens, which very soon comes glowing.
Listen, good God! our concert is beginning!
What notes! what raptures? Listen, shepherd-swains,
One chaunt is for the hill-side, the other's for the plains.

"Those lofty mountains
Far up above,
I cannot see
All that I love;
Move lower, mountains,
Plains, up-move,
That I may see
All that I love."{2}

And thousand voices sound through Heaven's alcove,
Coming across the skies so blue,
Making the angels smile above—
The earth embalms the songsters true;
The nightingales, from tree to flower,
Sing louder, fuller, stronger.
'Tis all so sweet, though no one beats the measure,
To hear it all while concerts last—such pleasure!
Indeed my vineyard's but a seat of honour,
For, from my hillock, shadowed by my bower,
I look upon the fields of Agen, the valley of Verone.{3}
How happy am I 'mongst my vines! Such pleasures there are none.

For here I am the poet-dresser, working for the wines.
I only think of propping up my arbours and my vines;
Upon the road I pick the little stones—
And take them to my vineyard to set them up in cones,
And thus I make a little house with but a sheltered door—
As each friend, in his turn, now helps to make the store.
And then there comes the vintage—the ground is firm and fast,
With all my friends, with wallets or with baskets cast,
We then proceed to gather up the fertile grapes at last.

Oh! my young vine,
The sun's bright shine
Hath ripened thee
All—all for me!
No drizzling showers
Have spoilt the hours.
My muse can't borrow;
My friends, to-morrow
Cannot me lend;
But thee, young friend,
Grapes nicely drest,
With figs the finest
And raisins gather
Bind them together!
Th' abundant season
Will still us bring
A glorious harvesting;
Close up thy hands with bravery
Upon the luscious grapery!

Now all push forth their tendrils; though not past remedy,
At th' hour when I am here, my faithful memory
Comes crowding back; my oldest friends
Now make me young again—for pleasure binds
Me to their hearts and minds.
But now the curtained night comes on again.

I see, the meadows sweet around,
My little island, midst the varying ground,
Where I have often laughed, and sometimes I have groaned.

I see far off the leafy woodland,
Or near the fountain, where I've; often dreamed;
Long time ago there was a famous man{4}
Who gave its fame to Agen.
I who but write these verses slight
Midst thoughts of memory bright.

But I will tell you all—in front, to left, to right,
More than a hedgerow thick that I have brought the light,
More than an apple-tree that I have trimmed,
More than an old vine-stalk that I have thinned
To ripen lovely Muscat.
Madame, you see that I look back upon my past,
Without a blush at last;
What would you? That I gave my vineyard back—
And that with usury? Alack!
And yet unto my garden I've no door—
Two thorns are all my fence—no more!
When the marauders come, and through a hole I see their nose,
Instead of taking up a stick to give them blows,
I turn aside; perhaps they never may return, the horde!
He who young robs, when older lets himself be robbed!