Volume II Part 4 (1/2)
Gentil poux! si Mars et ton courage Plus contraignaient ta Clotilde gmir, De lui montrer en son pet.i.t langage, A t'appeller ferai tout mon plaisir-- Plaisir ne l'est qu'autant qu'on le partage!
Among some other little poems, which place the conjugal and maternal character of Clotilde in a most charming light, I must notice one more for its tender and heartfelt beauty. It is ent.i.tled ”Ballade mon premier n,” and is addressed to her child, apparently in the absence of its father.
O chr enfantelet, vrai portrait de ton pre!
Dors sur le sein que ta bouche a press!
Dors pet.i.t!--clos, ami, sur le sein de ta mre, Tien doux oeillet, par le somme oppress.
Bel ami--chr pet.i.t! que ta pupille tendre, Goute un sommeil que plus n'est fait pour moi: Je veille pour te voir, te nourir, te defendre, Ainz qu'il est doux ne veiller que pour toi!
Contemplating him asleep, she says,
N'tait ce teint fleuri des couleurs de la pomme, Ne le diriez vous dans les bras de la mort?
Then, shuddering at the idea she had conjured up, she breaks forth into a pa.s.sionate apostrophe to her sleeping child,
Arrte, cher enfant! j'en frmis toute entire-- Reveille toi! cha.s.se un fatal propos!
Mon fils .... pour un moment--ah revois la lumire!
Au prix du tien, rends-moi tout mon rpos!
Douce erreur! il dormait .... c'est a.s.sez, je respire.
Songes lgers, flattez son doux sommeil; Ah! quand verrai celui pour qui mon coeur soupire, Au miens cots jouir de son rveil?
Quand reverrai celui dont as reu la vie?
Mon jeune poux, le plus beau des humains Oui--dja crois voir ta mre, aux cieux ravie, Que tends vers lui tes innocentes mains.
Comme ira se duisant ta premire caresse!
Au miens baisers com' t'ira disputant!
Ainz ne compte, toi seul, d'puiser sa tendresse,-- A sa Clotilde en garde bien autant!
Along the margin of the original MS. of this poem, was written an additional stanza, in the same hand, and quite worthy of the rest.
Voil ses traits ... son air ... voil tout ce que j'aime!
Feu de son oeil, et roses de son teint....
D'o vient m'en bahir? _autre qu'en tout lui mme, Pt-il jamais clore de mon sein?_
This is beautiful and true; beautiful, because it is true. There is nothing of fancy nor of art, the intense feeling gushes, warm and strong, from the heart of the writer, and it comes home to the heart of the reader, filling it with sweetness.--Am I wrong in supposing that the occasional obscurity of the old French will not disguise the beauty of the sentiment from the young wife or mother, whose eye may glance over this page?
It is painful, it is pitiful, to draw the veil of death and sorrow over this sweet picture.
What is this world? what asken men to have?
Now with his love--now in his cold grave, Alone, withouten any companie![25]
De Surville closed his brief career of happiness and glory (and what more than these could he have asked of heaven?) at the seige of Orleans, where he fought under the banner of Joan of Arc.[26] He was a gallant and a loyal knight; so were hundreds of others who then strewed the desolated fields of France: and De Surville had fallen undistinguished amid the general havoc of all that was n.o.ble and brave, if the love and genius of his wife had not immortalised him.