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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! 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'avais cent voix, EUes ne parleraient que d'elle; Si j'avais cent voix, Toutes rediraient k la fois: 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. 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.

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: 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: 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. 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! Jacques, and gave her a wedding portion: 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: 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. 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. 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. 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? Je t'aime tant, je t'aime tant: Seul, avec toi, devant temoin, Ou je le pense ou je le prouve. 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? 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.

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. 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. 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.

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. Portrait charmant, tu n'es pas le bonheur, Mais bien souvent tu m'en offres I'image. 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.

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. My good old coat, we'll never part — oh, no. 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!

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. 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.

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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. 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.

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Remember'st thou the lake's calm blue? 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.

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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. At once the vision fled — She sleeps no more: The watchful mother at her bed Sits as before: Le Bouton de Rose. 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! I implore you, make me A bud of the rose! Au sein de Rose, Heureux bouton tu vas mourir! Moi, si j'etais bouton de rose, Je ne mourrais que de plaisir — Au sein de Rose.

Au sein de Rose, Tu pourras trouver un rival; Ne joute pas, bouton de rose Car en beaute rien n'est egal, Au sein de Rose. Bouton de rose, Adieu!

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Rose vient, je la vois! S'il est une metempsychose, Grands dieux! JO humble toit de mon Pere. Of palaces, temples, and trophies they boast.

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Which lovely Italia lifts up to the skies. The work of a fairy we deem them almost, Their magical grandeur so dazzles the eyes; But oh! They talk of the gardens of Araby Blest, O'er which the bright sun ever scatters his hues, Where earth in spring's garment for ever is dressed, And never its flowers and fruits can refuse; But oh! Those countries which beauties so glorious adorn, — Those temples, — those flowers, — stir no envy in me. Though cold is the country in which I was bom.

We love there as well, and there Hfe is more free. So hail to the North, — there is nought ranks above My father's poor cot, where I learned how to love. Petite Flew des Bo is. Emile Earateau is one of the most prolific of modern song-writers, and La fettle Fletirdci Bois is one of the most jxjpular of his productions. Through forest and through field I Ve sought thee many an hour, That I might have the pow'r This simple truth to tell: Indeed, I love thee well. Thou little woodland flower. Thy simple loveliness No gaudy colour shows, But yet true pleasure glows From thy white spotless dress.

My lip I would incline Unto thy cup divine. Knowing that nought is there To cause a single tear. I love the birds that sing, The shade the branches fling, The golden-winged fly, As pleased he springs on high. Each fair one seems to bear A name of pow'r divine. And such a charm is thine, Thou mak'st me hold thee dear; For thee I fondlv seek. To thee my griefs I speak, And say, "Oh, come to me, And let me dote on thee. This song is evidently a sequel to Le Chateau d'Ehire see p. Night o'er the face of eartli was spread, But still Elvira sleepless lay; While in soft whispers near her bed, A voice complaining seemed to say: But death from thee was surely sweet; Three days will pass, and in his tomb Thy slighted Alfred thou wit meet.

She shrank from the impending doom, And trembling she would oft repeat, — "Three days wall pass, and in his tomb The slighted Alfred I shall meet. To hapless Alfred's tomb she went, The clock struck twelve, — her tott'ring feet Failed, — she, the fair indifferent, Has gone at last her love to meet. A la grace de Dieii. The songs bj' M. Gustave Lemoine have alxjut them a simple pathos which gives them a high rank among modem lyrical compositions.

The sentiment they express is generally the regret felt by a rural inhabitant of the town for the pleasures of his native home. The resetted countiyis usually Bretagne ; though in this poem, which is dated , the subject is that emigration from Savoy which is often a pathetic theme with French writers. Parisians, you our children keep Bestowed on you by Heaven's hand, We poor Savoyard mothers weep, But send them from their native land.

May God above watch over you! Should I ne'er see your face again! Adieu, adieu, May God above watch over you! Away the lowly exile went To toil beneath another sky. The mother, on her form intent, Followed the wand'rer with her eye; And when at last the form was gone, Her grief through all its fetters broke, She wept aloud, — the lonely one, — While still her child departing spoke: My mother dear, Adieu, May God above watch over you! Jean Pierre Claris Florian. In vain I mourn: Beyond my prison bars I see The sweet birds through the free air sweep. Singing their loves at liberty, Whilst I in hated fetters weep.

And to the future trust my fame. Perfidious — cruel — barb'rous foe! Hatred shall dog thy coming years. While o'er the tomb where I lie low. Pity will shed her tenderest tears. Ye dreary vaults— abode of fears And home of silence, — ah! I hear around my cell alway The howling wind — the owlet's cry — The bell's deep toll: En vain de ma douleur afifreuse Ces murs sont les tristes echos; En songeant que je fus heureuse Je ne fais qu'accroitre mes maux.

A travers ces grilles terribles Je vois les oiseaux dans les airs: Quel que soit le sort que m'accable, Mon coeur saura le soutenir, Infortune'e, et non coupable, Je prends pour juge I'avenir. Perfide et barbare ennemie, On detestera tes fureurs, Et sur la tombe de Marie La pitie versera des pleurs. Voiites sombres, sejour d'alarmes, Lieux au silence destines, Ah!

Ton heure sonne, il faut mourir! LHirondelle et le Proscrit. This beautiful song, which is dated , is published with the name of Fougas as its author. However, according to MM. Dumersan and Segur, this is merely a nojii de guerre, under which a very celebrated poet is concealed. HY, feathered wanderer, why this hasty flight? Come, swallow, rest awhile and perch by me: Why dost thou fly me thus when I invite?

Know'st not I am a foreigner like thee? Come, build thy nest beneath my window, Know'st not I am a traveller like thee? Dear swallow, do not fear to rest by me: If thou complainest, I complain as well; Know'st not I am an exile e'en like thee? But when the spring returns with smile so sweet, Then my asylum thou wilt quit, and me; Then wilt thou go, the Zephyr's land to greet; Alas, alas! The country of thy birth thou then wilt find, The nest of thy first love; but as for me, The chains of destiny so firmly bind, — To me belongs compassion, not to thee.

Pourquoi me fuir lorsque ma voix t'appelle, Ne suis-je pas etranger comme toi. Tu voleras au pays du Zephire; Ne puis-je, he'las! Jean Pierre Claris Flokian. How I love to see the swallows At my window every year, For they bring the happy tidings Smiling spring is drawing near. Caged and parted from its lover — Captive in the winter land; Soon you'll see it die of sorrow, While its mate, still lingering nigh, Knows no further joy in sunshine.

But on the same day mil die. Point d'hiver pour les cceurs fideles,: Night o'er the sky has spread her veil, The storm with hollow roar draws near; Tn the stars' glimmer, cold and pale, We read a sentence full of fear. Wliat feeble sound — O mother, tell! It is the monastery bell: While all caress her, she must die! Must part from all, her life must cease; Sweet love and earthly hope must fly. Or that sad bell may tell instead A dying soldier's mournful tale, Who oft in glorious battle bled.

Yet dies within his native vale. My soldier-father's own decease Was in his home — not on the field. Great God, what deathlike silence reigns! I hear no more the solemn bell. That, telling us of mortal pains, In dying murmurs faintly fell. Those eyes will shed no more the tear; The birds' songs on the branches cease: La nuit a de'ploye ses voiles: L'orage s'avance en grondant; Sur le front jDale des etoiles Se lit un arret menagant.

Quel faible bruit vient, 6 ma mere, Tinter sous nos arbres epais? C'est la cloche du monastere — Ame immortelle, allez en paix. Peut-etre au printemps de sa vie, Quand tout presageait de beaux jours, Une vierge est-elle ravie Aux charmes des premiers amours! Tout caressait son existence ; II faut tout quitter pour jamais: L'Amour fuit avec FEspe'rance — Ame immortelle, allez en paix.

Peut-etre cat airain qui sonne En longs et tristes tintements, D'un soldat qu'e'pargna Bellone Annonce les demiers instants. Mon pere, soldat et Frangais, Mourut aussi dans sa chaumiere — Ame immortelle, allez en paix. Je n'entends plus le son mourant Dont la triste et sombre eloquence Vient de finir en murmurant.

L'oiseau se tait sous la ramee: Vos ycux se sont clos pour jamais; Helas! De mon Village on ne voit plus Paris. You quitted us, now bitter tears you shed; Leaving a sad remembrance of the past, Your joys, like rapid moments, all have fled — The joys you fancied would for ever last. Then come with me, sweet mourner, come. Forgotten let thy sorrows be; Believe me, — from my village home This Paris we can never see.

Oh, hasten with me to that happy spot, Where childhood's joys together we have known; Come see my meadow green, my pleasant cot, — Come, — cottage, meadow, all shall be your own. Couplets d via Filleule. You doubtless think 'tis all a blunder; That such a choice should make you cry, Indeed, my child, I do not wonder.

A table spread with sweetmeats o'er Would much improve me, I dare say; — Still, dearest godchild, weep no more, For I may make you laugh some day. Your name in friendship I bestow, For friends this post in friendship give me; I'm not a mighty lord — oh, no; Yet I'm a honest man, beUeve me. Before your eyes no glittering store Of costly gifts can I display; — Still, dearest godchild, weep no more.

For I may make you laugh some day. Though even virtue is confined By Fate's stem laws, which sore oppress her, Godma and I uill bear in mind Our godchild's happiness — God bless her! While wandering on this rugged shore, Good hearts should never feel dismay; So, dearest godchild, weep no more, For I may make you iaugh some day. Years hence, upon your wedding-day. Yet 'twould be hard to die before A feast where all will be so gay; — My dearest godchild, weep no more, I'll make you laugh upon that day. And to his happiness devote my life, — And I am young, dear mother, you know well: When I the ring of gold shall wear, And joyfully enwTeath my hair With those white orange-flowers that brides array.

My mother, do not weep, I pray; I'm well, quite well, why let those tear-drops fall? A month had past, and autumn now was gone, I saw a new-erected tomb Which on the valley cast a gloom. And plainly read a name upon the stone — 'Twas Lucy's name. Think what her mother felt, When bowed by heavy grief in prayer she knelt.

When heaven-turned eyes her anguish told too well,- Oh, then no more the sere leaves fell. Emile Varin was one of the writers for the Theatre du Vaudeville before it was burned down in The above song is dated Though thy mngs thy prison beat, Echo only will repeat Thy sighs and mine; Here must I pine E'en as thou, sweet turtle-dove. My gentle fav'rite, my companion dear, We want for nothing, and I tend thee well ; We love each other, yet our love is drear — Whit makes us thus a-weary, canst thou tell?

Sprmg with his smile so bright We at our window see. Our souls with new delight Cry, "Joy, we wait for thee. The forest trees now put their foliage on, The almond its new flower begins to wear; This genial sun could animate a stone: When all is joyous, why do we despair? Two hearts that are a prey To flames that nought can still, When all around is gay. Access of torment feel.

And graceful is thy many-coloured neck, A thousand channs thou seemest to combine. To pity's warning shall I give no ear, Or do I dread that scolded I shall be? But then I feel the pain of losing thee. If once I ope thy door. What pleasure wilt thou taste, How freely wilt thou soar. And to the greenwood haste! With all my soul thy silken plumes I kiss; Come, give me fond caress for fond caress: To think that friendship can give joy like this! Thou patient turtle-dove, I '11 find for thee a mate, Whom thou may'st truly love, When I have — changed my state. Date of song, Ye happy hours of love, adieu!

Ye false and cruel oaths, farewell! That made me think his heart was true; Now nought shall in my memory dwdl— I must forget. And through the day, with whisper soft, The one sad thought she would reveal, And when she slept at night, she oft Amid her dreams would murmur still — "I must forget. Son mm, G, Lemoine. And ne'er my happiness reveal. Sacred from curious eyes I must Preserve that name, my heart's delight; Vv'ith it no paper dare I trust.

That name on sand I may not wTite. The breeze I trust not, that might bear To other ears a name so sweet; No echo must my secret hear, For echoes would the name repeat. My bosom with new thoughts it fires. While whisp'ring in its softest tone; Though all my verses it inspires, That name remains unsung alone. But yet that name, which nought can tell. If she came near, — oh, sweet surprise! The name of her whom I adore. Which such high rapture makes me feel. Although I guard it more and more. Will from its prison sometimes steal. The treasure for myself I keep, I breathe it at the break of day, I breathe it when I sink to sleep, And feel it lull my soul away.

The name of her whom I adore I only to my heart reveal, I guard it as a precious store. And ever will my joy conceal. Ilfaiii quitter ce que f adore. He composed many operas ; the most celebrated is Les Rendezvous Bourgeois. To-morrow tears thee from my heart. To-day my parting words receive. And let us heal all wounds to-day; But let our love, while yet we live, Ne'er from our memory pass away. But though our hearts forget to grieve, And think no more of this sad day, Still let our love, while yet we live.

Ne'er from our memory pass away. The thought of her I now adore Will be the only solace left. So, comfort I shall yet receive, While I repeat these words each day, Our love, my dearest, while I live. Shall ne'er from memory pass away. H, love me, love me, I implore, I have no faith but in thy heart ; Thou hast the balm to heal the sore, — In mercy, love, that balm impart. One only stay on earth I feel, The hope which makes my bosom swell. Copy to clipboard Close. Cite Data - Experimental. Data Citation of the Item Bergerettes: Structured data from the Bibframe namespace is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 4.

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