Part 5 (1/2)
One gift the Fairies gave me: (Three They commonly bestowed of yore) The Love of Books, the Golden Key That opens the Enchanted Door; Behind it BLUEBEARD lurks, and o'er And o'er doth JACK his Giants kill, And there is all ALADDIN'S store, - The Books I loved, I love them still!
Take all, but leave my Books to me!
These heavy creels of old we bore We fill not now, nor wander free, Nor wear the heart that once we wore; Not now each River seems to pour His waters from the Muses' hill; Though something's gone from stream and sh.o.r.e, The Books I loved, I love them still!
ENVOY.
Fate, that art Queen by sh.o.r.e and sea, We bow submissive to thy will, Ah grant, by some benign decree, The Books I loved--to love them still.
VALENTINE IN FORM OF BALLADE.
The soft wind from the south land sped, He set his strength to blow, From forests where Adonis bled, And lily flowers a-row: He crossed the straits like streams that flow, The ocean dark as wine, To my true love to whisper low, To be your Valentine.
The Spring half-raised her drowsy head, Besprent with drifted snow, ”I'll send an April day,” she said, ”To lands of wintry woe.”
He came,--the winter's overthrow With showers that sing and s.h.i.+ne, Pied daisies round your path to strow, To be your Valentine.
Where sands of Egypt, swart and red, 'Neath suns Egyptian glow, In places of the princely dead, By the Nile's overflow, The swallow preened her wings to go, And for the North did pine, And fain would brave the frost her foe, To be your Valentine.
ENVOY.
Spring, Swallow, South Wind, even so, Their various voice combine; But that they crave on ME bestow, To be your Valentine.
BALLADE OF OLD PLAYS.
(Les OEuvres de Monsieur Moliere. A Paris, chez Louys Billaine, a la Palme. M.D.C. LXVI.)
LA COUR.
When these Old Plays were new, the King, Beside the Cardinal's chair, Applauded, 'mid the courtly ring, The verses of Moliere; Point-lace was then the only wear, Old Corneille came to woo, And bright Du Parc was young and fair, When these Old Plays were new!
LA COMEDIE.
How shrill the butcher's cat-calls ring, How loud the lackeys swear!
Black pipe-bowls on the stage they fling, At Brecourt, fuming there!
The Porter's stabbed! a Mousquetaire Breaks in with noisy crew - 'Twas all a commonplace affair When these Old Plays were new!
LA VILLE.
When these Old Plays were new! They bring A host of phantoms rare: Old jests that float, old jibes that sting, Old faces peaked with care: Menage's smirk, de Vise's stare, The thefts of Jean Ribou,--{4} Ah, publishers were hard to bear When these Old Plays were new.
ENVOY.