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 morn
We fan the gold o' the corn
In the sun's heat.
139
A VOW TO HEAVENLY VENUS.
Du Bellay, 1550.
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.
140
APRIL.
Remy Belleau, i6o.
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 ;
141
TRANSLATIONS.
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 ; )
TR/INSLATIONS.
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 do 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.
M3
TRANSLATIONS.
Thou beholdest in the warm
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*
That from out the foam o' the sea
Came to be
Sudden light on earth and air.
* Aphrodite â Avril.
OF HIS LADY'S OLD AGE.
Ronsard, 1550.
WHEN you are very old, at evening
You '11 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 TaJmreau, i52']-i^^^.
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 Saba^an glade?
Oh happy rock and river, sky and sea.
Gardens, and glades Sabeean, all that be
The far-off splendid semblance of my maid !
146
MOONLIGHT.
Jacques TaJmreau, 1527-1555-
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.
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 suff'er a sky-change.
More strangely than the dew,
To God's own angels new,"
The Grave said to tlie Rose.
148
THE BIRTH OF BUTTERFLIES.
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 muffled 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 playtime,
We dream that all white butterflies 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 Butterflies.
149
AN OLD TUNE.
GERARD DE NERVAL.
THERE is an air for which I would disown
Mozart's, Rossini's, Weber's melodies, â
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.
150
SPRING IN THE STUDENT'S aUARTER.
HENRI MURGER.
WINTER is passing, and the bells
For ever with their silver lay
Murmur a melody that tells
Of April and of Easter day.
High in the sweet air the light vane sets,
The weathercocks all southward twirl ;
A sou will buy her violets
And make Nini a happy girl.
The winter to the poor was sore,
Counting the weary winter days.
Watching his little fire-wood store,
The bitter snow-flakes fell always ;
And now his last log dimly gleamed,
Lighting the room with feeble glare,
Half cinder and half smoke it seemed
That the wind wafted into air.
151
TRANSLATIONS.
See where the east is reddening,
The flocks that fly a thousand miles
From sunsetting to sunsetting;
Look up, look out, behold the swallows,
The throats that twitter, the wings that beat:
And on their song the summer follows,
And in the summer life is sweet.
With the green tender buds that know
The shoot and sap of lusty spring
My neighbour of a year ago
Her casement, see, is opening ;
Through all the bitter months that were,
Forth from her nest she dared not flee,
She was a study for Boucher,
She now might sit to Gavarni.
SPRING.
(After Meleager.)
NOW the bright crocus flames, and now
The sUm narcissus takes the rain,
And, straying o'er the mountain's brow,
The daffodilics bud again.
The thousand blossoms wax and wane
On wold, and heath, and fragrant bough ;
But fairer than the flowers art thou.
Than any growth of hill or plain.
Ye gardens, cast your leafy crown,
That my Love's feet may tread it down.
Like lilies on the lilies set ;
My Love, whose lips are softer far
Than drowsy poppy petals are.
And sweeter than the violet !
IS3
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 loving barter 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 â
Marie, have you forgotten all ?
Do you remember, love Marie ?
IS4
TRANSLATIONS.
Christine, do you remember yet
Your room with scents and roses gay ?
My garret â near the sky 't was set â
The April hours, the nights of May ?
The clear calm nights â 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 â
Marie, Louise, Christine forget ;
Our bower of love is ruinous,
And I alone remember yet.
lANNOULA.
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,