Ballads, Lyrics and Poems of Old France | Page 5

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.
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 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,