Ballads, Lyrics and Poems of Old France | Page 5

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 Sabaean glade??Oh happy rock and river, sky and sea,?Gardens, and glades Sabaean, 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 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.
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;
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