Le jour de gloire est arrivé ! (ROMANS CONTES) (French Edition)
Et en ce penser il conmencha a soy tourner et retourner , ne nullement endormir ne se pooit. Je la penrai. Que di ge? Et veritablement y pert tresbien a son maintieng et adce que elle moustre, que elle soit de tres bon lieu yssue. Et qui son estat de ce cas recorder vous volroit, je quide que longhement mettre y convenroit, car ne nuit ne jour il ne pensoit a aultre chose.
On peut en discerner deux causes convergentes. Si en estoit en telles pensses, que le plus souvent le dormir, le boire et le mengier en laissoit. Or Wauquelin ne fait pas mention de la clameur populaire. Agrandir Original jpeg, k. Cruel tyran de mes desirs. Marquis de Racan.
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Honorat de Bueil, Marquis de Racan, was one of the most celebrated poets of the seventeenth century, and one of the first members of the French Academy. Oh, let me to the rocks confess The secret of my heart's distress! The silence of these woods is deep, My secret they will never tell; Here constantly the echoes sleep, And here repose will ever dwell. The zephyrs only can confess The secret of my heart's distress. These shady boughs, so thickly spread, ConsoHng to my grief appear; The bitter tear-drops that I shed Seem to receive a welcome here.
Here, only here, I can confess The secret of my heart's distress. Though passion urges me to speak Whene'er the lovely nymph is near. She, who my heart can captive make. Then makes my tongue her fetters wear. To her I do not dare confess, E'en by a sigh, my heart's distress.
Her eyes seem not of mortal birth, Nought rivals their celestial fires. The Maker of the heavens and earth In them His masterpiece admires; Her beauty, — that, I will confess, Is worthy of my heart's distress. If kindly fortune will, at last, ShoAv that I have not prayed in vain. If after many seasons past. My love its rich reward shall gain, — Then to the rocks will I confess How lovers taste true happiness.
I'll love thee while the rosy-fingered dawn Heralds the day-god's coming reign of light ; I '11 love thee while the goddess Flora's gifts Adorn fair bosoms with their blossoms bright. I'll love thee whilst the swallows to their nests Return upon the breezes of the spring; I'll love thee while the turtles of the wood Their mournful love-lays on the branches sing. I '11 love thee while the tranquil wave reflects The light and colour of the summer heaven; I'll love thee while great Nature's precious gifts To us and to the earth are yearly given.
I'll love thee while the shepherd trusts his dog. The faithful guardian of his fleecy care; I '11 love thee while the butterfly delights To hover o'er June's blossoms, sweet and fair. II I '11 love thee while upon the flow'ry mead The happy lambkin finds a sweet repose ; I 'II love thee — soul of my own life! I '11 love thee while a spark of Love's bright torch Shall light the path of life with faintest ray; Our soul was given us that we might love, And I will love thee till my dying day!
Charles Riviere Dufresny was not only a poet, but also a musician and draughtsman, and an architect of some renown in the reign of Louis XIV, It was, however, as a poet he was most famous ; and while he shone in light comedy, he is looked upon as the predecessor in many respects of the more celebrated Abbe Lattaignant HiLLis, somewhat hard by nature, Would not an advantage miss, She asked Damon — greedy creature! Lovely Phillis, on the morrow, Cannot her advantage keep; She gives Damon, to her sorrow, Thirty kisses for one sheep.
Now another day is over, Damon sheep and dog might get For the kiss which he — the rover! Les Souhaits. The Abb6 de Lattaignant. Few writere have attained greater celebrity in their day than the Abbe Lattaignant, whose facility in writing and singing songs made him the delight of the fashionable circles in Paris tosvards the middle of the last century. Oh, my dearest I Oh, my fairest! For thy favour I implore. I will be True to thee, I will love thee evermore. If I had an hundred hearts Never should one stray from thee, If I had an hundred hearts Every one should feel thy darts.
If an hundred eyes were mine. Thee alone those eyes would see; If an hundred eyes were mine Every one on thee would shine. If an hundred tongues I had, They should speak of nought but thee; If an hundred tongues I had. All should talk of thee, like mad. If I were a potent god Then immortal thou shouldst be, If I were a potent god All should worship at thy nod.
If five hundred souls you wete All should love this beauty rare. Had you reached your hundredth year- Young mth her would Nestor be, — Had you reached your hundredth year Spring through her would re-appear. Fidele A cette belle, Je I'aimerai toujours. Si j 'avals cent coeurs, lis ne seraient remplis que d'elle; Si j'avais cent coeurs, Aucun d'eux n'aimerait ailleurs.
Si j'avais cent yeux. Ills seraient tons fixe's sur elle; Si j'avais cent yeux, lis ne verraient qu'elle en tons lieux. Si j'dtais un dieu, Je voudrais la rendre immortelle ; Si j'dtais un dieu On I'adorerait en tout lieu. Eussiez-vous cent ans, Nestor rajeunirait pour eile; Eussiez-vous cent ans, Vous retrouveriez le printemps. Ma mie, Ma douce amie, Reponds a mes amours. Ah Dim! Jean Desmarets. I wait upon a fickle dame.
And though she's false, I love her still. More constant is the roving wind, More constant is the rolling sea ; Proteus was apt to change, we find, — He never changed so oft as she. On me she now bestows her grace. Love 's not enough, she will adore ; Now lets another take my place, And vows she ne'er saw me before. But whatsoever faults I see, This is the grief I most deplore, — I cannot set my spirit free. In spite of all, I must adore. They will not leave the ancient track.
De Leyke. Died This romance is a French cradle-song — familiar to many generations. Ye joyous birds — a loving crowd — For pity, sing no more, I pray; For my true love, who made me blest. Is gone to countries far away. For treasures of the rich New World He flies from love, and death he braves; With happiness secured in port, Why should he seek it on the waves? Ye swallows of the wandering wing, Whom every spring return we see — Faithful, although ye wander far — Oh, bring my lover back to me!
What young lady, who has taken half a dozen lessons on the piano, is unacquainted with the air of ' 'A h! The words, which are anonymous, are less generally known. H, mamma, how can I tell In my heart what torments dwell? Since I saw that handsome swain Eyeing me, could I refrain From this little wicked thought : — Without loving — life is nought? Me into a bower he took, And with wreaths adorned my crook, Which of choicest flowers he made. Then, "My dear brunette," he said, "Flora's charms are less than thine, Ne'er was love to equal mine. Then I feigned to sink with dread, Then I from his clutches fled.
But Mhen I was safe at last, Through my heart the question past, Mingling hope mth bitter pain : Shall I see his face again? Shepherdesses, mark my words, Nothing love, beside your herds. Of the shepherds pray beware. If they look with tender air. If they tender thoughts reveal, Oh, what torment you may feel! Depuis que j'ai vu Silvandre Me regarder d'un air tendre, Mon coeur dit k tout moment : Peut-on vivre sans amant? L'autre jour dans un bosquet, De fleurs il fit un bouquet, II en para ma houlette, Me disant: "Belle brunette, Flore est moins belle que toi, L'amour moins tendre que moi.
Je rougis et, par malheur, Un soupir trahit mon coeur; Silvandre, en amant, habile, Ne joua pas I'imbecile : Je veux fuir, il ne veut pas : Jugez de mon embarras. Je fis semblant d'avoir peur, Je m'echappai par bonheur; J'eus recours h. Mais quelle peine secrete Se mele dans mon espoir, Si je ne puis le revoir. Bergeres de ce hameau, N'aimez que votre troupeau, Un berger, prenez-y garde, S'il vous aime, vous regarde, Et s'exprime tendrement, Peut vous causer du tourment. Je ne veux pas me press er.
The Duke de NiveRnois. When we're handsome, young, and gay. Good mamma, when at my age, Youth's dehghts, no doubt, would taste ; I shall be, too, — I '11 engage, When my time comes, — won- drous sage, But I 'II not show over-haste. When the men torment us so — We should fly, but not with haste. Most indifferent I appear, Though his words are to my taste, And my tender heart, I fear, I shall give it up, oh, dear! But I'll not show over-haste. I have seen how turtle-doves, Though a tenderness they feel For their ardent feathered loves, Show a firm resistance still.
Such their lovers ne'er forsake — Binding vows I, too, will make, But I '11 not show over-haste. Fauvre Jacques. This little song, which was quite the rage a few years before the first Revolt;tion, owed its origin to a circumstance which occurred while the " Petite Suisse," an artificial Swiss village, R-as constructed at the Little Trianon, for the amusement of Queen Marie Antoinette.
Swiss peasant-girl, who was brought from Switzerland with some cows to heighten the illusion, was observed to look melancholy, and the exclamation " Pauvre Jacques!lesbuzzbarversti.cf/from-out-of-the-sand.php
Jacques, and gave her a wedding portion : while the Marchioness de Travanet was moved lo write the song of " Paiivrc Jacques," to which she also composed the music. Poor Jacques, when I was close to thee, No sense of want my fancy crossed; But now thou livest far from me, I feel that all on earth is lost. When thou my humble toil Avouldst share, I felt ray daily labours light; Then every day appeared so fair; But what can make the present bright?
I cannot bear the sun's bright ray, When on the furrowed plain it falls; When through the shady wood I stray, All nature round my heart appals. Poor Jacques, when I was close to thee, No sense of want my fancy crossed ; But now thou livest far from me, I feel that all on earth is lost.
Quand le soleil brille sur nos gue'rets, Je ne puis souflfrir la lumiere : Et quand je suis a I'ombre des forets, J 'accuse la nature entibre. Zes Infidelites de Lisette. At the age of nine years he witnessed the taking of the Bastille, which made an indelible impression on his memory. Shortly afterwards he left Paris for Peronne, where he became apprentice in the printing establishment of M. Laisney, and the task of couiposing seems to have given him the first notions of li. A primary school founded at Peronne, on the principles of Jean Jacques Rousseau, completed his youthful education ; and when he returned to Paris, at the age of sixteen, he began to wnte epic, dramatic, and religious poems, inspired by studies of Moliere and Chateaubriand.
At the same time, however, while suffering the severest privations, he made several essays in that style of writing to which he owes his celebrity, and to this period of his life belong those Ij-rical expressions of a joyous poverty, of which. The poverty of Beranger proved at last too much for his patience, indomitable as this virtue appears in his effusions.
Lucien was a patron of literature, and at once obtained for Beranger an allowance from the Institute. The fortunes of the poet now took a new turn, and in i8oq he obtained an appointment connected with the University, which he held for twelve years. His salary never exceeded 2, francs ;C8o , but as his habits were extremely simple, this was all he required, and his natural love of independence prevented him from soliciting promotion.
As yet his principal themes of song were the joys of the bottle and the charms of the Grisette ; though he gave signs of his future political tendency by two of his most popular songs, Le Senatenr and Lc Roi d'Vvciot. It was after the Restoration that he assumed that indignant tone, in which he endeavoured to stimulate the hatred of the masses against the Court, the aristocracy, and the foreigners who had brought back the Bourbons.
Through the freedom of the songs which he now WTOte, he not only lost his situation, but was subjected to a heavy fine and three months' imprisonment. This punishment only served to increase his audacity. The Revolution of July not only put an end to the persecutions of the poet, but opened a path to fortune.
However, that love of independence, which is his noblest characteristic, would not allow him to accept any place even under a friendly government. He still continued to publish his songs, and even, when after the Revolution of he was elected a member of the Constituent Assembly by more than , votes, he resigned his honours as speedily as possible. As a happy appearance of spontaneity constitutes one of the principal charms of Beranger's poems, the following remarks by M.
Destigny, who has written a tolerably elaborate article on the poet in the " Nouvelle Biographie Universelle," will probably surprise those who imagine that easy reading is an indication of easy writing : " Beranger produces nothing at the first impulse, or as the result of a happy inspiration. He broods over his thoughts, matures them, analyses them, and connects them before he casts them into the mould which is to give them their form. It is not until he has got the ensemble of his work that he arranges the separate parts, and polishes it with that scrupulous care and inimit- able tact which were employed by Benvenuto Cellini in the carving of a crown.
Even in his most trifling songs it is impossible to discover a single useless epithet or forced expression. His style is clear, precise, and pure to a degree which sets all criticism at defiance. To beg a drop in vain. Lisette, O my Lisette, You're false — but let that pass — A health to the grisette; And to our love, Lisette, I '11 fill another glass. Young Lindor swaggers so, Your cunning he defies; I own he whispers low, But then he loudly sighg. Clitander — happy knave — With him I found you out : The kisses that he gave You took without a pout, And then repaid him more : Base girl, remember this.
And let my glass run o'er, — A bumper for each kiss! Mondor, who ribbons brings, And knick-knacks which you prize. Has ventured on strange things Before my very eyes; I've seen enough to make A modest person blush; Another glass I'll take These rogueries to hush. One evening to your door I came with noiseless tread, A thief, who came before.
From out your window fled. I had, before that day, Made that same rascal flee. Another bottle, pray. Lest I too plainly see. Upon them every one Your bounties you will heap, And those, with whom you've done. You know I'm forced to keep.
So drink with them I will, You shall not balk my vein. Pray be my mistress still, Your friends shall still be mine. Lisette, dont I'empire S'etend jusqu' h. Lisette, ma Lisette, Tu m'as trompe toujours; Mais vive la grisette! Je veux, Lisette, Boire h nos amours. Lindor, par son audace, Met ta ruse en defaut; II te parle h. Du tendre espoir qu'il fonde II m'instruisit d'abord. Avec I'heureux Clitandre Lorsque je te surpris, Vous comptiez d'un air tendre Les baisers qu'il t'a pris.
Mondor, qui toujours donne Et rubans et bijoux, Devant moi te chiffonne Sans te mettre en courroux. J'ai vu sa main bardie S'egarer sur ton sein; Verse jusqu' h. Certain soir je pdnbtre Dans ta chambre, et sans bruit, Je vois par la fenetre Un voleur qui s'enfuit. Je I'avais, des la veille, Fait fuir de ton boudoir. Tous, comble's de tes graces, Mes amis sont les tiens; Et ceux dont tu te lasses, C'est moi qui les souticns.
Qu'avec ceux-la, traitresse, La vin me soit permis : Sois toujours ma maitresse, Et gardons nos amis. Fabre d'Eglantine. Bom , guillotined Few would recognize the sanguinary revolutionist Fabre d'Eglantine in this simple pastoral. He was also celebrated as a dramatist, and his comedy " Le Philinte de Moliere" is generally contained in collections of classical French plays.
THE Storm is gathering o'er thee, The rain is falling fast, Quick, drive thy flock before thee, And to my cottage haste; I hear the rain-drops patter, As on the leaves they light; Now comes the thunder's clatter — Now come the flashes bright. Another step, another, — There stands my cottage home, My sister and my mother To welcome us have come. My love, the fire will cheer thee.
Thy clothes will soon be dry. My sister will sit near thee, And here thy sheep shall lie. Sure never flock was fatter! We'll give tliem all our care. And choicest straw we'll scatter For this thy lambkin fair. My mother, only see. Thy place for supper take, love. Sit close beside me — so, For thee the log shall make, love, A bright and cheerful glow. In vain the milk invites thee. No appetite hast thou. The thunder still affrights thee, Or thou art weary now.
Is't so? Where thou till dawn shalt rest ; But let one loving kiss, dear, Upon thy lips be pressed. And do not let thy cheek, love, Be thus with blushes dyed; At noon thy sire I'll seek, love, And claim thee for my bride. I LOVE thee, dear! I love thee, dear! More than I e'er can tell thee, sweet! Although each time I draw my breath.
Those ardent words my lips repeat : Absent or present, far or near, " I love thee! Alone with thee, or others nigh. To trace " I love " a hundred times, Can now alone my pen engage. Of thee alone my song now rhymes : Reading — thou smilest from the page! If Beauty greets my wandering glance, I strive thy look in hers to trace; In portraits or in pictures rare, I only seek to find thy face. Thy sweet idea I caress — It blends with my last thought in sleep. When I awake I see thy face, Before the day-beams win my sight.
And my heart faster flies to thee, Than to mine eyes the morning light. Absent, my spirit quits thee not; Thy words unheard my soul divines; I count thy cares, thy gentle steps — I guess the thought thy heart enshrines. Have I returned to thee once more? Heavenly delirious joy is mine! I breathe but love — and well thou knowest, Dearest, that breath is only thine!
Thy heart 's mine all! In thee — by thee — for thee alone I breathe, and only seek to live! What more can mortal language say? Tracer j'c faime en cent fagons Est le seul travail de ma plume; Je te chante dans mes chansons, Je te lis dans chaque volume. Qu'une beaute m'offre ses traits, Je te cherche sur son visage; Dans les tableaux, dans les portraits Je veux demeler ton image.
En ville, aux champs, chez moi, dehors, Ta douce image est caresse'e ; Elle se fond, quand je m'endors, Avec ma derniere pensee; Quand je m'eveille je te vois Avant d'avoir vu la lumiere, Et mon coeur est plus vite a toi Que n'est le jour a ma paupiere. Absent je ne te quitte pas ; Tous tes discours je les devine. Je compte tes soins et tes pas; Ce que tu sens, je I'imagine. Pres de toi suis-je de retour! Je suis aux cieux, c'est un de'lire; Je ne respire que I'amour, Et c'est ton souffle que j'aspire. Ton coeur m'est tout, mon bien, ma loi; Te plaire est toutc mon envie; Enfin, en toi, par toi, pour toi, Je respire et tiens h.
Ma bien-aimee, 6 mon tresor! Qu'ajouterais-je k ce langage? Eh bien! La Rose. Gektil Bernard. Pierre Joseph Bernard, complimented by Voltaire with the appellation of " Genlil," which has become a part of his name, gained an immense reputation by his light poetry in the reign of Louis XV. His long poem " L' Art d' Aimer," which created a great sensation when read in the fashionable circles of the day, sank in public opinion as soon as it was printed.
Nay, alas! From thy stalk at once come down. Let her in thy hues be dressed; Of all flowers thou art the crown, Also be the happiest. On young Chloe's breast expiring. Let it be thy throne and tomb, I no other lot desiring Shall be jealous of thy doom. Teach her to give up her arms To the god whose power is known; Singing thy expiring charms. Let her learn to use her own. Tendre fruit des fleurs de I'A. Palmire est une fleur nouvelle Qui doit subir la meme loi; Rose, tu dois briller comme elle, Elle doit passer comme toi.
Descends de la tige epineuse, Viens la parer de tes couleurs; Tu dois etre la plus heureuse, Comme la plus belle des fleurs. Va, meurs sur le sein de Palmire, Qu'il soit ton trone et ton tombeau, Jaloux de ton sort, je n'aspire Qu' au bonheur d'un trepas si beau. L Amour. The Chevalier de Boufflkrs. Bora , died In the latter capacity he was one of the members of the Diners dii Caveaic.
He also did good service of a more serious kind, as Governor of Senegal. Young Love is a deceitful child, My mother says to me. Although his aspect is so mild, A very snake is he. But I am curious, after all, To know how one who is so small So terrible can be. With pretty Cliloe, yesterday, A swain I chanced to see: Such soft sweet words I heard him say, Sincere he sure must be. A httle god I heard him name, And ah!
Now, just to find out what is meant, And solve the mystery, Young Cohn, — 'tis my firm intent, — Shall seek for Love with me. Though Love be ne'er so fierce and mid, We two for such a tiny child A match will surely be. Fondly watched them as they played. Suddenly they were united! To one spot at once they flew, Chloe's lovely face invited All the little sportive crew.
Some upon her forehead settled, Others in her eyes would rest, Others, who were higher mettled, In her tresses found a nest. Thus a picture v. Then all thoughts of flight Avere over, For he loved his place so well That he ceased to be a rover, And remained a sentinel. L Amour d'' Annette pour Lubin. Charles Sjirton Favart was one of the earliest poets of French comic opera, who still lives in the name given to the edifice of the Opera Comique at Paris. Aniiette et Lubin, an opera from which the above song is taken, was one of the most popular of his works.
Unknown its name has been Until this fatal day; — When we to love begin, To love are we a prey? Thine accents seem to touch My soul, as with a charm. Thy words I love so much, They seem my heart to warm. Apart from thee I feel A blank through every day. Will nought this anguish heal — Nought drive this love away? The flowers thy dear hand gives With fond delight I wear; At eve thou pluck'st their leaves To make me perfumes rare.
Annette thou seek'st to please, Thy care she would repay; But ah! Tlic air to the above words, which a few years ago was almost as popular in England as in France, was composed by the author, Frederic Berat. Among the glaciers I have been, Where from the vale the chalet peers, The sky of Italy I've seen, And Venice mth her gondoliers; And, leaving all, I've said, "To me There is a land of greater Avorth ; Nought can excel my Normandy, For that's the land that gave me birth.
When dull and cold my muse shall be. And end her songs of love and mirth. Oh, then I'll seek my Normandy, For that's the land that gave me birth. QuAND tout renait h. I'esperance, Et que I'hiver fuit loin de nous. Sous le beau ciel de notre France, Quand le soleil revient plus doux. Quand le nature est reverdie, Quand I'hirondelle est de retour, J'aime k revoir ma Normandie, C'est le pays qui m'a donne le jour.
J'ai vu le ciel de I'ltalie, Et Venise et ses gondoliers. En saluant chaque patrie, Je me disais : Aucun sejour N'est plus beau que ma Normandie, C'est le pays qui m'a donne le jour. Lorsque ma muse refroidie Aura fini ses chants d'amour, J'irai revoir ma Normandie, C'est le pays qui m'a donne le jour. Le Portrait. Dear portrait of a form that I adore, Dear pledge, which love was happy to obtain, What I have lost, oh, bring to me again!
In seeing thee I feel I live once more. Here is her look, her frank and winning air; With her loved features so adorned thou art, That I can gladly press thee to my heart. And think it is herself I'm pressing there. But no; her living charms thou canst not show, Thou witness of my sorrows, mute and dead ; Recalling pleasures that, alas! Thou mak'st my tears, thou cruel portrait, flow. Nay, of my hasty language I repent. Pardon the ravings of my heart's distress; Dear portrait, though thou art not happiness, Its image to my soul thou canst present. Portrait charmant, portrait de mon amie, Gage d'amour, par I'amour obtenu.
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Lorsque ma main te presse sur mon coeur, Je crois encore la presser elle-meme. Non, tu n'as pas pour moi les memes charmes, Muet temoin de mes tendres soupirs : En retragant nos fugitifs plaisirs, Cruel portrait, tu fais couler mes larmes. Ze Chateau d'Elvire. ENEATH Elvira's castle wall, A troubadour, whose tuneful strings Are moistened by the tears that fall, Thus of his anguish sadly sings : "When at the tourney thou didst reign, A queen all rivals far above, I felt indifference was vain, And then I first began to love.
Thou 'it murmur in thy sweetest tone, And echoes to soft answers move, — The troubadour beneath this stone Loved once, and only once could love. Mon Habit. This song belongs to the same period as Les Infidelitis de Lisette. Y poor dear coat, be faithful to the end : We both grow old ; ten years have gone, Through which my hand has brushed thee, ancient friend; Not more could Socrates have done.
If weakened to a threadbare state, Thou still must suffer many a blow; E'en like thy master brave the storms of fate, My good old coat, we'll never part — oh, no! I still can well remember the first day I wore thee, — for my memory's strong; It was my birthday; and my comrades gay Chanted thy glories in a song.
Thy poverty might make me vain; The friends who loved me long ago, Though thou art poor, will drink to thee again; My good old coat, we'll never part — oh, no! This fine-drawn rent — its cause I ne'er forget, — It beams upon my memory still; I feigned one night to fly from my Lisette, And even now her grasp I feel. Ne'er drugged with musk and amber hast tliou been, Like coats by vapid coxcombs worn; Ne'er in an antechamber wert thou seen Insulted by the lordling's scorn. How wistfully all France has eyed The hand that ribbons can bestow! The field-flower is thy button's only pride, — My good old coat, we'll never part — oh, no!
We shall not have those foolish days again When our two destinies were one. Those days so fraught with, pleasure and with pain, Those days of mingled rain and sun. I somehow think, my ancient friend, Unto a coatless realm I go; Yet wait awhile, together we will end, — My good old coat, we'll never part — oh, no! Le Tombeau d'Emma. Beranger has honoured his memory with a song, and the elegance of his classical compositions has obtained for him the name of the "French TibuUus.
My Emma's solitary tomb is here. I saw death fling its sombre, sudden shade Over the sunny morning of tliy days: Thine eyes umvilHng seemed to quench their rays, And slowly could I see their lustre fade. The youthful throng, — that vain and empty crowd, Who on her will Uke worshippers would hang, And hymn her beauty forth in praises loud, — Could see her die without a single pang. When their dear benefactress they had lost. Not e'en the poor, to whom she was so kind, Within their hearts a single sigh could find, With which to silence her complaining ghost.
Perfidious friendship, with its smiling face. Now laughs as loudly as it laughed before; The dying image it could soon efface. And for a passing hour its mourning wore.
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Upon this earth thy memory liveth not. Thy tender constancy no more they prize. But from thy tomb they coldly turn their eyes; Thy very name is by the world forgot. Love, love alone is faithful to its grief, Not even Time can teach it to forget; Within the shades of death it seeks relief. And finds incessant sighs to mourn thee yet I come, ere morning breaks, my tears to shed.
My pain grows more intense in day's full light, I weep amid the silence of the night. And I am weeping still when night has fled. Awake, my verse, sole comfort of my woe, And with my tears of sorrow freely flow. Les Souvenirs. The name of Francois Auguste, Viscount de Chateaubriand, needs no comment. It is not on his songs that his celebrity depends, but Les Souvenirs deserves a place in every collection of French poetry.
My childhood's home — that pleasant spot By me can never be forgot! How happy, sister, then appeared Our country's lot. Our mother's form remember'st thou? While on her brow Our lips the white locks fondly pressed; Then were we blessed! And, sister, thou remember'st yet The castle, which the stream would wet; And that strange Moorish tower, so old, Thou 'It not forget; How from its bell the deep sound rolled, And day foretold. Remember'st thou the lake's calm blue?
Louise Weiss ()
The swallow brushed it as he flew — How with the reeds the breezes played; The evening hue With which the waters bright were made, In gold arrayed. Le Rhe de Marie. Bom And Paris you would see, While she weeps here! Perchance, you may, my poor Marie, Your mother and your God forget. Upon her mother's brow She prints a kiss.
But even while she sleeps, The watchful mother still she hears, Who by her bedside weeps. She leaves her native home With weeping eyes, To Paris she has come, — - Oh, bright surprise! There all appears to trace In lines of gold her future lot, And dazzling dreams efface The image of her humble cot.
Heaven, when two years have past, Bids her return, To her Savoy at last She comes — to mourn. Le Bouton de Rose. Princesse dk Salm. Bud of the rose! Happier than I thou mlt be! On the bosom of Rose Thou goest to die, happy flower! If I were a bud of the rose. With joy I should die in an hour On the bosom of Rose. The bosom of Rose, Thy rival, sweet rosebud, may prove; Fret not, pretty bud of the rose, Nought equals in beauty or love The bosom of Rose. Bud of the rose. My Rose coming I see! Mais il me semble que sur ce point. Mais je m'excuse de faire ces remarques en passant : ces questions de chronologie, aux solutions toujours remises en cause, demanderaient un bien plus ample examen.
Fourrier, p. Comme le signale M. Misrahi, loc. Est-elle plus hypocrite qu'Iseut? Fourrier voil un lui, non pas un chevalier d'Arras, comme le veut M. Frederick A. Fourrier voir les p. Comment conclut-il?
Gautier sait en effet tracer avec humour et pittoresque de petits tableaux de genre, des portraits moraux. Par la jalousie ou par la confiance? Fourrier ne montre-t-il pas. Gautier supprime totalement le merveilleux.