TRANSLATIONS FROM THE FRENCH.

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, 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; 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, 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, And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly, Who has toiled for nought both late and early, Is banished afar by the new-born year, When thy merry step draws near.

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, Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me! I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend;— ’Tis 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. 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! 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! O when shall he for whom I sigh in vain, Beside me watch to see thy waking smile?

Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine? Nought see I fixed or sure in thee! I do not know thee,—nor what deeds are thine: Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine? Nought see I fixed or sure in thee! Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine? Ye who are blessed in loving, tell it me: Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine Nought see I permanent or sure in thee!

Hence away, begone, begone, Carking care and melancholy! Think ye thus to govern me All my life long, as ye have done? That shall ye not, I promise ye: Reason shall have the mastery. So hence away, begone, begone, Carking care and melancholy! If ever ye return this way, With your mournful company, A curse be on ye, and the day That brings ye moping back to me! Hence away, begone, I say, Carking care and melancholy!

Now Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and cold and rain, And clothes him in the embroidery Of glittering sun and clear blue sky. With beast and bird the forest rings, Each in his jargon cries or sings; And Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and cold and rain. River, and fount, and tinkling brook Wear in their dainty livery Drops of silver jewelry; In new-made suit they merry look; And Time throws off his cloak again Of ermined frost, and cold and rain.

To gallop off to town post-haste So oft, the times I cannot tell; To do vile deed, nor feel disgraced,— Friar Lubin will do it well. But a sober life to lead, To honour virtue, and pursue it, That’s a pious, Christian deed,— Friar Lubin cannot do it. To mingle with a knowing smile, The goods of others with his own, And leave you without cross or pile, Friar Lubin stands alone. To say ’tis yours is all in vain, If once he lays his finger to it; For as to giving back again, Friar Lubin cannot do it. With flattering words and gentle tone, To woo and win some guileless maid, Cunning pander need you none,— Friar Lubin knows the trade. Loud preacheth he sobriety, But as for water, doth eschew it; Your dog may drink it,—but not he; Friar Lubin cannot do it. ENVOI. When an evil deed’s to do, Friar Lubin’s stout and true; Glimmers a ray of goodness through it, Friar Lubin cannot do it.

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; Brave Roland saw, and to his succour 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. “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 with strife! But death steals on,—there is no hope of life; In Paradise, where the almoners live again, 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! 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, “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.” 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 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. 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,— 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!

Thou mighty Prince of Church and State, Richelieu! until the hour of death, Whatever road man chooses, Fate Still holds him subject to her breath. Spun of all silks, our days and nights Have sorrows woven with delights; And of this intermingled shade Our various destiny appears, Even as one sees the course of years Of summers and of winters made. Sometimes the soft, deceitful hours Let us enjoy the halcyon wave; Something impending peril lowers Beyond the seaman’s skill to save. The Wisdom, infinitely wise, That gives to human destinies Their foreordained necessity, Has made no law more fixed below, Than the alternate ebb and flow Of Fortune and Adversity.

Will then, Du Perrier, thy sorrow be eternal? And shall the sad discourse Whispered within thy heart, by tenderness paternal, Only augment its force? Thy daughter’s mournful fate, into the tomb descending By death’s frequented ways, Has it become to thee a labyrinth never ending, Where thy lost reason strays? I know the charms that made her youth a benediction: Nor should I be content, As a censorious friend, to solace thine affliction, By her disparagement. But she was of the world, which fairest things exposes To fates the most forlorn; A rose, she too hath lived as long as live the roses, The space of one brief morn.

Death hath his rigorous laws, unparalleled, unfeeling; All prayers to him are vain; Cruel, he stops his ears, and, deaf to our appealing, He leaves us to complain. The poor man in his hut, with only thatch for cover, Unto these laws must bend; The sentinel that guards the barriers of the Louvre Cannot our Kings defend. To murmur against death, in petulant defiance, Is never for the best; To will what God doth will, that is the only science That gives us any rest.

An angel with a radiant face Above a cradle bent to look, Seemed his own image there to trace As in the waters of a brook. “Dear child! who me resemblest so,” It whispered, “come, O come with me! Happy together let us go, The earth unworthy is of thee! “Here none to perfect bliss attain; The soul in pleasure suffering lies; Joy hath an undertone of pain, And even the happiest hours their sighs. “Fear doth at every portal knock; Never a day serene and pure From the o’ershadowing tempest’s shock Has made the morrow’s dawn secure. “What, then, shall sorrows and shall fears Come to disturb so pure a brow? And with the bitterness of tears Those eyes of azure troubled grow? “Ah no! into the fields of space, Away shalt thou escape with me; And Providence will grant thee grace Of all the days that were to be. “Let no one in thy dwelling cower In sombre vestments draped and veiled; But let them welcome thy last hour, As thy first moments once they hailed. “Without a cloud be there each brow; There let the grave no shadow cast; When one is pure as thou art now, The fairest day is still the last.” And waving wide his wings of white, The angel, at these words, had sped Towards the eternal realms of light!— Poor mother! see, thy son is dead.

I hear along our street Pass the minstrel throngs; Hark! they play so sweet, On their hautboys, Christmas songs! Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire! In December ring Every day the chimes; Loud the gleemen sing In the streets their merry rhymes. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire! Shepherds at the grange, Where the Babe was born Sang, with many a change, Christmas carols until morn. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire. These good people sang Songs devout and sweet While the rafters rang, There they stood with freezing feet. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire! Nuns in frigid cells At this holy tide, For want of something else, Christmas songs at times have tried. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire! Washerwomen old, To the sound they beat, Sing by rivers cold, With uncovered heads and feet. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire! Who by the fireside stands Stamps his feet and sings; But he who blows his hands Not so gay a carol brings. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire!

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.

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 On a Wednesday morn of Saint 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!” 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, Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain: Resembling there, so near unto the sky, Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sent For their delight and our encouragement. Together blending, And soon descending The narrow sweep Of the hill-side steep, They wind aslant Toward Saint Amant Through leafy alleys Of verdurous valleys, With merry sallies, Singing their chant: “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!” It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden, With garlands for the bridal laden! 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, A rustic bridal, ah! how sweet it is! To sounds of joyous melodies, That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom, A band of maidens Gaily frolicking, A band of youngsters Wildly rollicking! Kissing, Caressing, With fingers pressing, 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, Sporting with them, now escapes and cries: “Those who catch me Married verily This year shall be!” And all pursue with eager haste, 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, 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? O, 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. What ails Baptiste? what grief doth him oppress? It is, that, half way up the hill In yon cottage, by whose walls Stand the cart-house and the stalls, Dwelleth the blind orphan still, Daughter of a veteran old; And you must know, one year ago, That Margaret, the young and tender, Was the village pride and splendour, And Baptiste her lover bold. 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, 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, ere long the lover fled; Returned but three short days ago, 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, “Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate! Here comes the cripple Jane!” And by a fountain’s side A woman, bent and grey with years, Under the mulberry-trees appears, And all towards her run, as fleet 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, Another a happy wedding-day, And the bride a lovely boy straightway. All comes to pass as she avers; She never deceives, she never errs. But for this once the village seer 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; Changing colour, as well he might, When the beldame, wrinkled and grey, Takes the young bride by the hand, And, with the tip of her reedy wand, Making the sign of the cross, doth say:— “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; 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; And down green alleys Of verdurous valleys, With merry sallies, They sang the refrain:— “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!”

II. And by suffering worn and weary, But beautiful as some fair angel yet, 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! 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! What joy have I without thee? what delight? Grief wastes my life, and makes it misery; Day for the others ever, but for me For ever night! for ever night! When he is gone ’tis dark! my soul is sad! 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, 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! 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? “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! 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. But some one comes! Though blind, my heart can see! And that deceives me not! ’tis he! ’tis he!” And the door ajar is set, And poor, confiding Margaret Rises, with outstretched arms, but sightless eyes; ’Tis 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!” “Angela married! and not send To tell her secret unto me! O, speak! who may the bridegroom be?” “My sister, ’tis Baptiste, thy friend!” A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said; 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. She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed, A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed. At length the bridal song again Brings her back to her sorrow and pain. “Hark! the joyous airs are ringing! Sister, dost thou hear them singing? How merrily they laugh and jest! Would we were bidden with the rest! I would don my hose of homespun grey, And my doublet of linen striped and gay; Perhaps they will come; for they do not wed Till to-morrow at seven o’clock, it is said!” “I know it!” answered Margaret; Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet, Mastered again; and its hand of ice Held her heart crushed, as in a vice! “Paul, be not sad! ’Tis a holiday; To-morrow put on thy doublet gay! But leave me now for a while alone.” Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul, And, as he whistled along the hall, Entered Jane, the crippled crone. “Holy Virgin! what dreadful heat! I am faint, and weary, and out of breath! But thou art cold,—art chill as death! My little friend! what ails thee, sweet?” “Nothing! I heard them singing home the bride; And, as I listened to the song, I thought my turn would come ere long, Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide. Thy cards forsooth can never lie, To me such joy they prophesy, Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide When they behold him at my side. And poor Baptiste, what sayest thou? It must seem long to him;—methinks I see him now!” Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press: “Thy love I cannot all approve; We must not trust too much to happiness; Go, pray to God, that thou mayst love him less!” “The more I pray, the more I love! It is no sin, for God is on my side!” It was enough; and Jane no more replied. Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold; But to deceive the beldame old She takes a sweet, contented air; Speaks of foul weather or of fair, At every word the maiden smiles. Thus the beguiler she beguiles; So that, departing at the evening’s close, She says, “She may be saved! she nothing knows!” Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress! Now that thou wouldst, thou art no prophetess! This morning, in the fulness of thy heart, Thou wast so, far beyond thine art!

III. Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating, And the white daybreak, stealing up the sky, Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting, How differently! Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed, The one puts on her cross and crown, Decks with a huge bouquet her breast, And flaunting, fluttering up and down, Looks at herself, and cannot rest. The other, blind, within her little room, Has neither crown nor flower’s perfume; But in their stead for something gropes apart That in a drawer’s recess doth lie, And, ’neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye, Convulsive clasps it to her heart. The one, fantastic, light as air, ’Mid kisses ringing, And joyous singing, Forgets to say her morning prayer! The other, with cold drops upon her brow, Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor, And whispers, as her brother opes the door, “O God! forgive me now!” And then the orphan, young and blind, Conducted by her brother’s hand, Towards the church, through paths unscanned, With tranquil air, her way doth wind. Odours of laurel, making her faint and pale, Round her at times exhale, And in the sky as yet no sunny ray, But brumal vapours grey. Near that castle, fair to see, Crowded with sculptures old, in every part, Marvels of nature and of art, And proud of its name of high degree, A little chapel, almost bare, At the base of the rock is builded there; All glorious that it lifts aloof, Above each jealous cottage roof, Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales, And its blackened steeple high in air, Round which the osprey screams and sails. “Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by!” Thus Margaret said. “Where are we? we ascend!” “Yes; seest thou not our journey’s end? Hearest not the osprey from the belfry cry? The hideous bird, that brings ill luck, we know! Dost thou remember when our father said, The night we watched beside his bed, ’O daughter, I am weak and low; Take care of Paul; I feel that I am dying!’ And thou, and he, and I, all fell to crying? Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud; And here they brought our father in his shroud. There is his grave; there stands the cross we set; Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret? Come in! The bride will be here soon: Thou tremblest! O my God! thou art going to swoon!” She could no more,—the blind girl, weak and weary! A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary, “What wouldst thou do, my daughter?”—and she started; And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted; But Paul, impatient, urges ever more Her steps towards the open door; And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid Crushes the laurel near the house immortal, And with her head, as Paul talks on again, Touches the crown of filigrane Suspended from the low-arched portal, No more restrained, no more afraid, She walks, as for a feast arrayed, And in the ancient chapel’s sombre night They both are lost to sight. At length the bell, With booming sound, Sends forth, resounding round, Its hymeneal peal o’er rock and down the dell. It is broad day, with sunshine and with rain; And yet the guests delay not long, For soon arrives the bridal train, And with it brings the village throng. In sooth, deceit maketh no mortal gay, For lo! Baptiste on this triumphant day, Mute as an idiot, sad as yester-morning, Thinks only of the beldame’s words of warning. And Angela thinks of her cross, I wis; To be a bride is all! The pretty lisper Feels her heart swell to hear all round her whisper, “How beautiful! how beautiful she is!” But she must calm that giddy head, For already the Mass is said; At the holy table stands the priest; The wedding ring is blessed; Baptiste receives it; Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it, He must pronounce one word at least! ’Tis spoken; and sudden at the groomsman’s side “’Tis he!” a well-known voice has cried. And while the wedding-guests all hold their breath, Opes the confessional, and the blind girl, see! “Baptiste,” she said, “since thou hast wished my death, As holy water be my blood for thee!” And calmly in the air a knife suspended! Doubtless her guardian angel near attended, For anguish did its work so well, That, ere the fatal stroke descended, Lifeless she fell! At eve, instead of bridal verse, The De Profundis filled the air; Decked with flowers a single hearse To the churchyard forth they bear; Village girls in robes of snow Follow, weeping as they go; Nowhere was a smile that day, No, ah no! for each one seemed to say:— “The roads shall mourn and be veiled in gloom, So fair a corpse shall leave its home! Should mourn and should weep, ah, well-away, So fair a corpse shall pass to-day!”

My soul its secret hath, my life too hath its mystery, A love eternal in a moment’s space conceived; Hopeless the evil is, I have not told its history, And she who was the cause nor knew it nor believed. Alas! I shall have passed close by her unperceived, For ever at her side and yet for ever lonely, I shall unto the end have made life’s journey, only Daring to ask for nought, and having nought received. For her, though God hath made her gentle and endearing, She will go on her way distraught and without hearing These murmurings of love that round her steps ascend, Piously faithful still unto her austere duty, Will say, when she shall read these lines full of her beauty, “Who can this woman be?” and will not comprehend.

I leave you, ye cold mountain chains, Dwelling of warriors stark and frore! You, may these eyes behold no more, Save on the horizon of our plains. Vanish, ye frightful, gloomy views! Ye rocks that mount up to the clouds! Of skies, enwrapped in misty shrouds, Impracticable avenues! Ye torrents, that with might and main Break pathways through the rocky walls, With your terrific waterfalls Fatigue no more my weary brain! Arise, ye landscapes full of charms, Arise, ye pictures of delight! Ye brooks, that water in your flight The flowers and harvests of our farms! You I perceive, ye meadows green, Where the Garonne the lowland fills, Not far from that long chain of hills, With intermingled vales between. Yon wreath of smoke, that mounts so high, Methinks from my own hearth must come; With speed to that belovèd home, Fly, ye too lazy coursers, fly! And bear me thither, where the soul In quiet may itself possess, Where all things soothe the mind’s distress, Where all things teach me and console.

From this high portal, where upsprings The rose to touch our hands in play, We at a glance behold three things,— The Sea, the Town, and the Highway. And the Sea says: My shipwrecks fear; I drown my best friends in the deep; And those who braved my tempests, here Among my sea-weeds lie asleep! The Town says: I am filled and fraught With tumult and with smoke and care; My days with toil are overwrought, And in my nights I gasp for air. The Highway says: My wheel-tracks guide To the pale climates of the North; Where my last milestone stands abide The people to their death gone forth. Here, in the shade, this life of ours, Full of delicious air, glides by Amid a multitude of flowers As countless as the stars on high; These red-tiled roofs, this fruitful soil, Bathed with an azure all divine, Where springs the tree that gives us oil, The grape that giveth us the wine; Beneath these mountains stripped of trees, Whose tops with flowers are covered o’er, Where springtime of the Hesperides Begins, but endeth nevermore; Under these leafy vaults and walls, That unto gentle sleep persuade This rainbow of the waterfalls, Of mingled mist and sunshine made; Upon these shores, where all invites, We live our languid life apart; This air is that of life’s delights, The festival of sense and heart; This limpid space of time prolong, Forget to-morrow in to-day, And leave unto the passing throng The Sea, the Town, and the Highway.