But rather than all thoughts forego
Of the fair
With flaxen hair,
Give me back her frowns again.
Hark! hark! 25
Pretty lark!
Little heedest thou my pain!
Song: And whither goest thou, gentle sigh
Given in The Trouvères, a chapter of Outre-Mer, as another example of the lyrics of the early poets of the North of France.
AND whither goest thou, gentle sigh,
Breathed so softly in my ear?
Say, dost thou bear his fate severe
To Love’s poor martyr doomed to die?
Come, tell me quickly, — do not lie; 5
What secret message bring’st thou here?
And whither goest thou, gentle sigh,
Breathed so softly in my ear?
May Heaven conduct thee to thy will,
And safely speed thee on thy way; 10
This only I would humbly pray, —
Pierce deep, — but oh! forbear to kill.
And whither goest thou, gentle sigh,
Breathed so softly in my ear?
The Return of Spring
(Renouveau)
By Charles D’Orleans
NOW Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain,
And clothes him in the embroidery
Of glittering sun and clear blue sky.
With beast and bird the forest rings, 5
Each in his jargon cries or sings;
And Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain.
River, and fount, and tinkling brook
Wear in their dainty livery 10
Drops of silver jewelry;
In new-made suit they merry look;
And Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain.
Spring
By Charles D’Orleans
GENTLE Spring! in sunshine clad,
Well dost thou thy power display!
For Winter maketh the light heart sad,
And thou, thou makest the sad heart gay.
He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train, 5
The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain;
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,
When thy merry step draws near.
Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old,
Their beards of icicles and snow; 10
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,
We must cower over the embers low;
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,
Mope like birds that are changing feather.
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear, 15
When thy merry step draws near.
Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky
Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud;
But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh;
Thou tearest away the mournful shroud, 20
And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly,
Who has toiled for naught both late and early,
Is banished afar by the new-born year,
When thy merry step draws near.
The Child Asleep
(Verslets à mon premier né)
By Clotilde de Surville
SWEET babe! true portrait of thy father’s face,
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed!
Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother’s breast.
Upon that tender eye, my little friend, 5
Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me!
I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend;
‘T is sweet to watch for thee, alone for thee!
His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow;
His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm. 10
Wore not his cheek the apple’s ruddy glow,
Would you not say he slept on Death’s cold arm?
Awake, my boy! I tremble with affright!
Awake, and chase this fatal thought! Unclose
Thine eye but for one moment on the light! 15
Even at the price of thine, give me repose!
Sweet error! he but slept, I breathe again;
Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile!
Oh, when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain,
Beside me watch to see thy waking smile? 20
Death of Archbishop Turpin
From the Chanson de Roland
THE ARCHBISHOP, whom God loved in high degree,
Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and free;
And then his cheek more ghastly grew and wan,
And a faint shudder through his members ran.
Upon the battle-field his knee was bent; 5
Brave Roland saw, and to his succor went,
Straightway his helmet from his brow unlaced,
And tore the shining hauberk from his breast.
Then raising in his arms the man of God,
Gently he laid him on the verdant sod. 10
“Rest, Sire,” he cried,— “for rest thy suffering needs.”
The priest replied, “Think but of warlike deeds!
The field is ours; well may we boast this strife!
But death steals on, — there is no hope of life;
In paradise, where Almoners live again, 15
There are our couches spread, there shall we rest from pain.”
Sore Roland grieved; nor marvel I, alas!
That thrice he swooned upon the thick green grass.
When he revived, with a loud voice cried he,
“O Heavenly Father! Holy Saint Marie! 20
Why lingers death to lay me in my grave!
Beloved France! how have the good and brave
Been torn from thee, and left thee weak and poor!”
Then thoughts of Aude, his lady-love, came o’er
His spirit, and he whispered soft and slow, 25
“My gentle friend! — what parting full of woe!
Never so true a liegeman shalt thou see; —
Whate’er my fate, Christ’s benison on thee!
Christ, who did save from realms of woe beneath,
The Hebrew Prophets from the second death.” 30
Then to the Paladins, whom well he knew,
He went, and one by one unaided drew
To Turpin’s side, well skilled in ghostly lore; —
No heart had he to smile, but, weeping sore,
He blessed them in God’s name, with faith that he 35
Would soon vouchsafe to them a glad eternity.
The Archbishop, then, on whom God’s benison rest,
Exhausted, bowed his head upon his breast; —
His mouth was full of dust and clotted gore,
And many a wound his swollen visage bore. 40
Slow beats his heart, his panting bosom heaves,
Death comes apace, — no hope of cure relieves.
Towards heaven he raised his dying hands and prayed
That God, who for our sins was mortal made,
Born of the Virgin, scorned and crucified, 45
In paradise would place him by his side.
Then Turpin died in service of Charlon,
In battle great and eke great orison; —
‘Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion;
God grant to him his holy benison. 50
The Blind Girl of Castèl Cuillè
By Jacques Jasmin
Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might
Rehearse this little tragedy aright;
Let me attempt it with an English quill;
And take, O Reader, for the deed the will.
On the 30th of September, 1849, Mr. Longfellow wrote in his diary: “I think I shall translate Jasmin’s Blind Girl of Castèl Cuillè, — a beautiful poem, unknown to English ears and hearts
, but well deserving to be made known.”
I
At the foot of the mountain height
Where is perched Castèl cuillè,
When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree
In the plain below were growing white,
This is the song one might perceive 5
On a Wednesday morn of St. Joseph’s Eve:
The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,
So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day! 10
This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending,
Seemed from the clouds descending;
When lo! a merry company
Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye,
Each one with her attendant swain, 15
Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain;
Resembling there, so near unto the sky,
Rejoicing angels, that kind heaven had sent
For their delight and our encouragement.
Together blending, 20
And soon descending
The narrow sweep
Of the hillside steep,
They wind aslant
Towards Saint Amant, 25
Through leafy alleys
Of verdurous valleys
With merry sallies,
Singing their chant:
The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, 30
So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day!
It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden,
With garlands for the bridal laden! 35
The sky was blue; without one cloud of gloom,
The sun of March was shining brightly,
And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly
Its breathings of perfume.
When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom, 40
A rustic bridal, ah! how sweet it is!
To sounds of joyous melodies,
That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom,
A band of maidens
Gayly frolicking, 45
A band of youngsters
Wildly rollicking!
Kissing,
Caressing,
With fingers pressing, 50
Till in the veriest
Madness of mirth, as they dance,
They retreat and advance,
Trying whose laugh shall be loudest and merriest;
While the bride, with roguish eyes, 55
Sporting with them, now escapes and cries:
“Those who catch me
Married verily
This year shall be!”
And all pursue with eager haste, 60
And all attain what they pursue,
And touch her pretty apron fresh and new,
And the linen kirtle round her waist.
Meanwhile, whence comes it that among
These youthful maidens fresh and fair, 65
So joyous, with such laughing air,
Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue?
And yet the bride is fair and young!
Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all,
That love, o’er-hasty, precedeth a fall? 70
Oh no! for a maiden frail, I trow,
Never bore so lofty a brow!
What lovers! they give not a single caress!
To see them so careless and cold to-day,
These are grand people, one would say. 75
What ails Baptiste? what grief doth him oppress?
It is, that, half-way up the hill,
In you cottage, by whose walls
Stand the cart-house and the stalls,
Dwelleth the blind orphan still, 80
Daughter of a veteran old;
And you must know, one year ago,
That Margaret, the young and tender,
Was the village pride and splendor,
And Baptiste her lover bold. 85
Love, the deceiver, them ensnared;
For them the altar was prepared;
But alas! the summer’s blight,
The dread disease that none can stay,
The pestilence that walks by night, 90
Took the young bride’s sight away.
All at the father’s stern command was changed;
Their peace was gone, but not their love estranged.
Wearied at home, erelong the lover fled;
Returned but three short days ago, 95
The golden chain they round him throw,
He is enticed, and onward led
To marry Angela, and yet
Is thinking ever of Margaret.
Then suddenly a maiden cried, 100
“Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate!
Here comes the cripple Jane!” And by a fountain’s side
A woman, bent and gray with years,
Under the mulberry trees appears,
And all towards her run, as fleet 105
As had they wings upon their feet.
It is that Jane, the cripple Jane,
Is a soothsayer, wary and kind.
She telleth fortunes, and none complain.
She promises one a village swain, 110
Another a happy wedding-day,
And the bride a lovely boy straight-way.
All comes to pass as she avers;
She never deceives, she never errs.
But for this once the village seer 115
Wears a countenance severe,
And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white
Her two eyes flash like cannons bright
Aimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue,
Who, like a statue, stands in view; 120
Changing color, as well he might,
When the beldame wrinkled and gray
Takes the young bride by the hand,
And, with the tip of her reedy wand
Making the sign of the cross, doth say: — 125
“Thoughtless Angela, beware!
Lest, when thou weddest this false bridegroom,
Thou diggest for thyself a tomb!”
And she was silent; and the maidens fair
Saw from each eye escape a swollen tear; 130
But on a little streamlet silver-clear,
What are two drops of turbid rain?
Saddened a moment, the bridal train
Resumed the dance and song again;
The bridegroom only was pale with fear; — 135
And down green alleys
Of verdurous valleys,
With merry sallies,
They sang the refrain: —
The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, 140
So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day!
II
And by suffering worn and weary,
But beautiful as some fair angel yet, 145
Thus lamented Margaret,
In her cottage lone and dreary: —
“He has arrived! arrived at last!
Yet Jane has named him not these three days past;
Arrived! yet keeps aloof so far! 150
And knows that of my night he is the star!
Knows that long months I wait alone, benighted,
And count the moments since he went away!
Come! keep the promise of that happier day,
That I may keep the faith to thee I plighted! 155
What joy have I without thee? what delight?
Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery;
Day for the others ever, but for me
Forever night! forever night!
When he is gone ‘t is dark! my soul is sad! 160
I suffer! O my God! come, make me glad.
When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude;
> Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue eyes!
Within them shines for me a heaven of love,
A heaven all happiness, like that above, 165
No more of grief! no more of lassitude!
Earth I forget, — and heaven, and all distresses,
When seated by my side my hand he presses;
But when alone, remember all!
Where is Baptiste? he hears not when I call! 170
A branch of ivy, dying on the ground,
I need some bough to twine around!
In pity come! be to my suffering kind!
True love, they say, in grief doth more abound!
What then — when one is blind? 175
“Who knows? perhaps I am forsaken!
Ah! woe is me! then bear me to my grave!
O God! what thoughts within me waken!
Away! he will return! I do but rave!
He will return! I need not fear! 180
He swore it by our Saviour dear;
He could not come at his own will;
Is weary, or perhaps is ill!
Perhaps his heart, in this disguise,
Prepares for me some sweet surprise! 185
But some one comes! Though blind, my heart can see!
And that deceives me not! ‘t is he! ‘t is he!”
And the door ajar is set,
And poor, confiding Margaret
Rises, with outstretched arms, but sightless eyes; 190
‘T is only Paul, her brother, who thus cries: —
“Angela the bride has passed!
I saw the wedding guests go by;
Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked?
For all are there but you and I!” 195
“Angela married! and not sent
To tell her secret unto me!
Oh, speak! who may the bridegroom be?”
“My sister, ‘t is Baptiste, thy friend!”
A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said; 200
A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks;
An icy hand, as heavy as lead,
Descending, as her brother speaks,
Upon her heart, that has ceased to beat,
Suspends awhile its life and heat. 205
Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13) Page 142
