THERE is an air for which I would disown Mozart's, Rossini's, Weber's melodies, -A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs, And keeps its secret charm for me alone.
Whene'er I hear that music vague and old, Two hundred years are mist that rolls away;The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold A green land golden in the dying day.
An old red castle, strong with stony towers, The windows gay with many coloured glass;Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers, That bathe the castle basement as they pass.
In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair, A lady looks forth from her window high;It may be that I knew and found her fair, In some forgotten life, long time gone by.
JUANA.
ALFRED DE MUSSET.
AGAIN I see you, ah my queen, Of all my old loves that have been, The first love, and the tenderest;Do you remember or forget -
Ah me, for I remember yet -
How the last summer days were blest?
Ah lady, when we think of this, The foolish hours of youth and bliss, How fleet, how sweet, how hard to hold!
How old we are, ere spring be green!
You touch the limit of eighteen And I am twenty winters old.
My rose, that mid the red roses, Was brightest, ah, how pale she is!
Yet keeps the beauty of her prime;
Child, never Spanish lady's face Was lovely with so wild a grace;Remember the dead summer time.
Think of our loves, our feuds of old, And how you gave your chain of gold To me for a peace offering;And how all night I lay awake To touch and kiss it for your sake, -To touch and kiss the lifeless thing.
Lady, beware, for all we say, This Love shall live another day, Awakened from his deathly sleep;The heart that once has been your shrine For other loves is too divine;A home, my dear, too wide and deep.
What did I say - why do I dream?
Why should I struggle with the stream Whose waves return not any day?
Close heart, and eyes, and arms from me;
Farewell, farewell! so must it be, So runs, so runs, the world away,The season bears upon its wing The swallows and the songs of spring, And days that were, and days that flit;The loved lost hours are far away;
And hope and fame are scattered spray For me, that gave you love a day For you that not remember it.
SPRING IN THE STUDENT'S QUARTER.
HENRI MURGER.
WINTER is passing, and the bells For ever with their silver lay Murmur a melody that tells Of April and of Easter day.
High in sweet air the light vane sets, The weathercocks all southward twirl;A sou will buy her violets And make Nini a happy girl.
The winter to the poor was sore, Counting the weary winter days, Watching his little fire-wood store, The bitter snow-flakes fell always;And now his last log dimly gleamed, Lighting the room with feeble glare, Half cinder and half smoke it seemed That the wind wafted into air.
Pilgrims from ocean and far isles See where the east is reddening, The flocks that fly a thousand miles From sunsetting to sunsetting;Look up, look out, behold the swallows, The throats that twitter, the wings that beat;And on their song the summer follows, And in the summer life is sweet.
* * * * * *
With the green tender buds that know The shoot and sap of lusty spring My neighbour of a year ago Her casement, see, is opening;Through all the bitter months that were, Forth from her nest she dared not flee, She was a study for Boucher, She now might sit to Gavarni.
OLD LOVES.
HENRI MURGER.
LOUISE, have you forgotten yet The corner of the flowery land, The ancient garden where we met, My hand that trembled in your hand?
Our lips found words scarce sweet enough, As low beneath the willow-trees We sat; have you forgotten, love?
Do you remember, love Louise?
Marie, have you forgotten yet The loving barter that we made?
The rings we changed, the suns that set, The woods fulfilled with sun and shade?
The fountains that were musical By many an ancient trysting tree -Marie, have you forgotten all?
Do you remember, love Marie?
Christine, do you remember yet Your room with scents and roses gay?
My garret - near the sky 'twas set -
The April hours, the nights of May?
The clear calm nights - the stars above That whispered they were fairest seen Through no cloud-veil? Remember, love!
Do you remember, love Christine?
Louise is dead, and, well-a-day!
Marie a sadder path has ta'en;
And pale Christine has passed away In southern suns to bloom again.
Alas! for one and all of us -
Marie, Louise, Christine forget;
Our bower of love is ruinous, And I alone remember yet.
MUSETTE.
HENRI MURGER. 1850
YESTERDAY, watching the swallows' flight That bring the spring and the season fair, A moment I thought of the beauty bright Who loved me, when she had time to spare;And dreamily, dreamily all the day, I mused on the calendar of the year, The year so near and so far away, When you were lief, and when I was dear.
Your memory has not had time to pass;
My youth has days of its lifetime yet;
If you only knocked at the door, alas, My heart would open the door, Musette!
Still at your name must my sad heart beat;Ah Muse, ah maiden of faithlessness!
Return for a moment, and deign to eat The bread that pleasure was wont to bless.
The tables and curtains, the chairs and all, Friends of our pleasure that looked on our pain, Are glad with the gladness of festival, Hoping to see you at home again;Come, let the days of their mourning pass, The silent friends that are sad for you yet;The little sofa, the great wine glass -
For know you had often my share, Musette.
Come, you shall wear the raiment white You wore of old, when the world was gay, We will wander in woods of the heart's delight The whole of the Sunday holiday.
Come, we will sit by the wayside inn, Come, and your song will gain force to fly, Dipping its wing in the clear and thin Wine, as of old, ere it scale the sky.
Musette, who had scarcely forgotten withal One beautiful dawn of the new year's best, Returned at the end of the carnival, A flown bird, to a forsaken nest.
Ah faithless and fair! I embrace her yet, With no heart-beat, and with never a sigh;And Musette, no longer the old Musette, Declares that I am no longer I.
