Chapter 2

MY lady woke upon a morning fair, What time Apollo’s chariot takes the skies, And, fain to fill with arrows from her eyes His empty quiver, Love was standing there: I saw two apples that her breast doth bear None such the close of the Hesperides Yields; nor hath Venus any such as these, Nor she that had of nursling Mars the care.

Even such a bosom, and so fair it was, Pure as the perfect work of Phidias, That sad Andromeda’s discomfiture Left bare, when Perseus passed her on a day, And pale as Death for fear of Death she lay, With breast as marble cold, as marble pure.

HIS LADY’S DEATH.

RONSARD, 1550.

TWAIN that were foes, while Mary lived, are fled; One laurel-crowned abides in heaven, and one Beneath the earth has fared, a fallen sun, A light of love among the loveless dead. The first is Chastity, that vanquished The archer Love, that held joint empery With the sweet beauty that made war on me, When laughter of lips with laughing eyes was wed.

Their strife the Fates have closed, with stern control, The earth holds her fair body, and her soul An angel with glad angels triumpheth; Love has no more that he can do; desire Is buried, and my heart a faded fire, And for Death’s sake, I am in love with Death.

HIS LADY’S TOMB.

RONSARD, 1550.

AS in the gardens, all through May, the rose, Lovely, and young, and fair apparelled, Makes sunrise jealous of her rosy red, When dawn upon the dew of dawning glows; Graces and Loves within her breast repose, The woods are faint with the sweet odour shed, Till rains and heavy suns have smitten dead The languid flower, and the loose leaves unclose,—

So this, the perfect beauty of our days, When earth and heaven were vocal of her praise, The fates have slain, and her sweet soul reposes; And tears I bring, and sighs, and on her tomb Pour milk, and scatter buds of many a bloom, That dead, as living, she may be with roses.

SHADOWS OF HIS LADY.

JACQUES TAHUREAU, 1527–1555.

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 Sabæan glade? Oh happy rock and river, sky and sea, Gardens, and glades Sabæan, all that be The far-off splendid semblance of my maid!

MOONLIGHT.

JACQUES TAHUREAU, 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 jargonéd 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.

LOVE IN MAY.

PASSERAT, 1580.

OFF with sleep, love, up from bed, This fair morn; See, for our eyes the rosy red New dawn is born; Now that skies are glad and gay In this gracious month of May, Love me, sweet, Fill my joy in brimming measure, In this world he hath no pleasure, That will none of it.

Come, love, through the woods of spring, Come walk with me; Listen, the sweet birds jargoning From tree to tree. List and listen, over all Nightingale most musical That ceases never; Grief begone, and let us be For a space as glad as he; Time’s flitting ever.

Old Time, that loves not lovers, wears Wings swift in flight; All our happy life he bears Far in the night. Old and wrinkled on a day, Sad and weary shall you say, ‘Ah, fool was I, That took no pleasure in the grace Of the flower that from my face Time has seen die.’

Leave then sorrow, teen, and tears Till we be old; Young we are, and of our years Till youth be cold Pluck the flower; while spring is gay In this happy month of May, Love me, love; Fill our joy in brimming measure; In this world he hath no pleasure That will none thereof.

THE GRAVE AND THE ROSE.

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 suffer a sky-change, More strangely than the dew, To God’s own angels new,’ The Grave said to the Rose.

THE GENESIS 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 play-time, 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.

MORE STRONG THAN TIME.

VICTOR HUGO.

SINCE I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet, Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid, Since I have known your soul, and all the bloom of it, And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade;

Since it was given to me to hear one happy while, The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries, Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile, Your lips upon my lips, and your eyes upon my eyes;

Since I have known above my forehead glance and gleam, A ray, a single ray, of your star, veiled always, Since I have felt the fall, upon my lifetime’s stream, Of one rose petal plucked from the roses of your days;

I now am bold to say to the swift changing hours, Pass, pass upon your way, for I grow never old, Fleet to the dark abysm with all your fading flowers, One rose that none may pluck, within my heart I hold.

Your flying wings may smite, but they can never spill The cup fulfilled of love, from which my lips are wet; My heart has far more fire than you have frost to chill, My soul more love than you can make my soul forget.

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.

JUANA.

ALFRED DE MUSSET.

AGAIN I see you, ah my queen, Of all my old loves that have been, The first love, and the tenderest; Do you remember or forget— Ah me, for I remember yet— How the last summer days were blest?

Ah lady, when we think of this, The foolish hours of youth and bliss, How fleet, how sweet, how hard to hold! How old we are, ere spring be green! You touch the limit of eighteen And I am twenty winters old.

My rose, that mid the red roses, Was brightest, ah, how pale she is! Yet keeps the beauty of her prime; Child, never Spanish lady’s face Was lovely with so wild a grace; Remember the dead summer time.

Think of our loves, our feuds of old, And how you gave your chain of gold To me for a peace offering; And how all night I lay awake To touch and kiss it for your sake,— To touch and kiss the lifeless thing.

Lady, beware, for all we say, This Love shall live another day, Awakened from his deathly sleep; The heart that once has been your shrine For other loves is too divine; A home, my dear, too wide and deep.

What did I say—why do I dream? Why should I struggle with the stream Whose waves return not any day? Close heart, and eyes, and arms from me; Farewell, farewell! so must it be, So runs, so runs, the world away,

The season bears upon its wing The swallows and the songs of spring, And days that were, and days that flit; The loved lost hours are far away; And hope and fame are scattered spray For me, that gave you love a day For you that not remember it.

SPRING IN THE STUDENT’S QUARTER.

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 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.

Pilgrims from ocean and far isles 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.

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— 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.

MUSETTE.

HENRI MURGER. 1850

YESTERDAY, watching the swallows’ flight That bring the spring and the season fair, A moment I thought of the beauty bright Who loved me, when she had time to spare; And dreamily, dreamily all the day, I mused on the calendar of the year, The year so near and so far away, When you were lief, and when I was dear.

Your memory has not had time to pass; My youth has days of its lifetime yet; If you only knocked at the door, alas, My heart would open the door, Musette! Still at your name must my sad heart beat; Ah Muse, ah maiden of faithlessness! Return for a moment, and deign to eat The bread that pleasure was wont to bless.

The tables and curtains, the chairs and all, Friends of our pleasure that looked on our pain, Are glad with the gladness of festival, Hoping to see you at home again; Come, let the days of their mourning pass, The silent friends that are sad for you yet; The little sofa, the great wine glass— For know you had often my share, Musette.

Come, you shall wear the raiment white You wore of old, when the world was gay, We will wander in woods of the heart’s delight The whole of the Sunday holiday. Come, we will sit by the wayside inn, Come, and your song will gain force to fly, Dipping its wing in the clear and thin Wine, as of old, ere it scale the sky.

Musette, who had scarcely forgotten withal One beautiful dawn of the new year’s best, Returned at the end of the carnival, A flown bird, to a forsaken nest. Ah faithless and fair! I embrace her yet, With no heart-beat, and with never a sigh; And Musette, no longer the old Musette, Declares that I am no longer I.

Farewell, my dear that was once so dear, Dead with the death of our latest love; Our youth is laid in its sepulchre, The calendar stands for a stone above. ’Tis only in searching the dust of the days, The ashes of all old memories, That we find the key of the woodland ways That lead to the place of our paradise.

THE THREE CAPTAINS.

ALL beneath the white-rose tree Walks a lady fair to see, She is as white as the snows, She is as fair as the day: From her father’s garden close Three knights have ta’en her away.

He has ta’en her by the hand, The youngest of the three— ‘Mount and ride, my bonnie bride, On my white horse with me.’

And ever they rode, and better rode, Till they came to Senlis town, The hostess she looked hard at them As they were lighting down.

‘And are ye here by force,’ she said, ‘Or are ye here for play? From out my father’s garden close Three knights me stole away.

‘And fain would I win back,’ she said, ‘The weary way I come; And fain would see my father dear, And fain go maiden home.’

‘Oh, weep not, lady fair,’ said she, ‘You shall win back,’ she said, ‘For you shall take this draught from me Will make you lie for dead.’

‘Come in and sup, fair lady,’ they said, ‘Come busk ye and be bright; It is with three bold captains That ye must be this night.’

When they had eaten well and drunk, She fell down like one slain: ‘Now, out and alas! for my bonny may Shall live no more again.’

‘Within her father’s garden stead There are three white lilies; With her body to the lily bed, With her soul to Paradise.’

They bore her to her father’s house, They bore her all the three, They laid her in her father’s close, Beneath the white-rose tree.

She had not lain a day, a day, A day but barely three, When the may awakes, ‘Oh, open, father, Oh, open the door for me.

‘’Tis I have lain for dead, father, Have lain the long days three, That I might maiden come again To my mother and to thee.’

THE BRIDGE OF DEATH.

‘THE dance is on the Bridge of Death And who will dance with me?’ ‘There’s never a man of living men Will dare to dance with thee.’

Now Margaret’s gone within her bower Put ashes in her hair, And sackcloth on her bonny breast, And on her shoulders bare.

There came a knock to her bower door, And blithe she let him in; It was her brother from the wars, The dearest of her kin.

‘Set gold within your hair, Margaret, Set gold within your hair, And gold upon your girdle band, And on your breast so fair.

‘For we are bidden to dance to-night, We may not bide away; This one good night, this one fair night, Before the red new day.’

‘Nay, no gold for my head brother, Nay, no gold for my hair; It is the ashes and dust of earth That you and I must wear.

‘No gold work for my girdle band, No gold work on my feet; But ashes of the fire, my love, But dust that the serpents eat.’

* * * * * *

They danced across the bridge of Death, Above the black water, And the marriage-bell was tolled in hell For the souls of him and her.

LE PÈRE SÉVÈRE.

KING LOUIS’ DAUGHTER.

BALLAD OF THE ISLE OF FRANCE.

KING LOUIS on his bridge is he, He holds his daughter on his knee.

She asks a husband at his hand That is not worth a rood of land.

‘Give up your lover speedily, Or you within the tower must lie.’

‘Although I must the prison dree, I will not change my love for thee.

‘I will not change my lover fair Not for the mother that me bare.

‘I will not change my true lover For friends, or for my father dear.’

‘Now where are all my pages keen, And where are all my serving men?

‘My daughter must lie in the tower alway, Where she shall never see the day.’

* * * * * *

Seven long years are past and gone And there has seen her never one.

At ending of the seventh year Her father goes to visit her.

‘My child, my child, how may you be?’ ‘O father, it fares ill with me.

‘My feet are wasted in the mould, The worms they gnaw my side so cold.’

‘My child, change your love speedily Or you must still in prison lie.’

‘’Tis better far the cold to dree Than give my true love up for thee.’

THE MILK WHITE DOE.

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.

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 sung 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.’

LOST FOR A ROSE’S SAKE.

I LAVED my hands, By the water side; With the willow leaves My hands I dried.

The nightingale sung On the bough of the tree; Sing, sweet nightingale, It is well with thee.

Thou hast heart’s delight, I have sad heart’s sorrow For a false false maid That will wed to-morrow.

’Tis all for a rose, That I gave her not, And I would that it grew In the garden plot.

And I would the rose-tree Were still to set, That my love Marie Might love me yet.

BALLADS OF MODERN GREECE.

THE BRIGAND’S GRAVE.

THE moon came up above the hill, The sun went down the sea; Go, maids, and fetch the well-water, But, lad, come here to me.

Gird on my jack and my old sword, For I have never a son; And you must be the chief of all When I am dead and gone.

But you must take my old broad sword, And cut the green bough of the tree, And strew the green boughs on the ground To make a soft death bed for me.

And you must bring the holy priest That I may sained be; For I have lived a roving life Fifty years under the greenwood tree.

And you shall make a grave for me, And make it deep and wide; That I may turn about and dream With my old gun by my side.

And leave a window to the east, And the swallows will bring the spring; And all the merry month of May The nightingales will sing.

THE SUDDEN BRIDAL.

IT was a maid lay sick of love, All for a leman fair; And it was three of her bower-maidens That came to comfort her.

The first she bore a blossomed branch, The second an apple brown, The third she had a silk kerchief, And still her tears ran down.

The first she mocked, the second she laughed— ‘We have loved lemans fair, We made our hearts like the iron stone Had little teen or care.’

‘If ye have loved ’twas a false false love, And an ill leman was he; But her true love had angel’s eyes, And as fair was his sweet body.

And I will gird my green kirtle, And braid my yellow hair, And I will over the high hills And bring her love to her.’