plains are always gold; and mossy very, The valleys, where we breathe the healthy air, And where we walk on beds of flowers most fair! The country round your Paris has its flowers and greensward, But 'tis too grand a dame for me, it is too dull and sad. Here, thousand houses smile along the river's stream; Our sky is bright, it laughs aloud from morn to e'en. Since month of May, when brightest weather bounds For six months, music through the air resounds-- A thousand nightingales the shepherd's ears delight: All sing of Love--Love which is new and bright. Your Opera, surprised, would silent hearken, When day for night has drawn aside its curtain, Under our heavens, which very soon comes glowing. Listen, good God! our concert is beginning! What notes! what raptures? Listen, shepherd-swains, One chaunt is for the hill-side, the other's for the plains. "Those lofty mountains Far up above, I cannot see All that I love; Move lower, mountains, Plains, up-move, That I may see All that I love."2 And thousand voices sound through Heaven's alcove, Coming across the skies so blue, Making the angels smile above-- The earth embalms the songsters true; The nightingales, from tree to flower, Sing louder, fuller, stronger. 'Tis all so sweet, though no one beats the measure, To hear it all while concerts last--such pleasure! Indeed my vineyard's but a seat of honour, For, from my hillock, shadowed by my bower, I look upon the fields of Agen, the valley of Verone.3 How happy am I 'mongst my vines! Such pleasures there are none. For here I am the poet-dresser, working for the wines. I only think of propping up my arbours and my vines; Upon the road I pick the little stones-- And take them to my vineyard to set them up in cones, And thus I make a little house with but a sheltered door-- As each friend, in his turn, now helps to make the store. And then there comes the vintage--the ground is firm and fast, With all my friends, with wallets or with baskets cast, We then proceed to gather up the fertile grapes at last. Oh! my young vine, The sun's bright shine Hath ripened thee All--all for me! No drizzling showers Have spoilt the hours. My muse can't borrow; My friends, to-morrow Cannot me lend; But thee, young friend, Grapes nicely drest, With figs the finest And raisins gather Bind them together! Th' abundant season Will still us bring A glorious harvesting; Close up thy hands with bravery Upon the luscious grapery! Now all push forth their tendrils; though not past remedy, At th' hour when I am here, my faithful memory Comes crowding back; my oldest friends Now make me young again--for pleasure binds Me to their hearts and minds. But now the curtained night comes on again. I see, the meadows sweet around, My little island, midst the varying ground, Where I have often laughed, and sometimes I have groaned. I see far off the leafy woodland, Or near the fountain, where I've; often dreamed; Long time ago there was a famous man4 Who gave its fame to Agen. I who but write these verses slight Midst thoughts of memory bright. But I will tell you all--in front, to left, to right, More than a hedgerow thick that I have brought the light, More than an apple-tree that I have trimmed, More than an old vine-stalk that I have thinned To ripen lovely Muscat. Madame, you see that I look back upon my past, Without a blush at last; What would you? That I gave my vineyard back-- And that with usury? Alack! And yet unto my garden I've no door-- Two thorns are all my fence-- no more! When the marauders come, and through a hole I see their nose, Instead of taking up a stick to give them blows, I turn aside; perhaps they never may return, the horde! He who young robs, when older lets himself be robbed!
FRANCONNETTE.
FIRST PART.
Blaise de Montluc--Festival at Roquefort--The Prettiest Maiden-- The Soldier and the Shepherds-- Kissing and Panting-- Courage of Pascal--Fury of Marcel--Terrible Contest. 'Twas at the time when Blaise the murderous Struck heavy blows by force of arms. He hewed the Protestants to pieces, And, in the name of God the Merciful, Flooded the earth with sorrow, blood, and tears. Alas! 'twas pitiful--far worse beyond the hills, Where flashing gun and culverin were heard; There the unhappy bore their heavy cross, And suffered, more than elsewhere, agonising pain, Were killed and strangled, tumbled into wells; 'Tween Penne and Fumel the saddened earth was gorged. Men, women, children, murdered everywhere, The hangman even stopped for breath; While Blaise, with heart of steel, dismounted at the gate Of his strong castle wall, With triple bridge and triple fosse; Then kneeling, made his pious prayers, Taking the Holy Sacrament, His hands yet dripping with fraternal blood!1 Now every shepherd, every shepherd lass, At the word Huguenot shuddered with affright, Even 'midst their laughing courtship. And yet it came to pass That in a hamlet, 'neath a castled height, One Sunday, when a troop of sweethearts danced Upon the day of Roquefort fete, And to a fife the praises sang Of Saint James and the August weather-- That bounteous month which year by year, Through dew-fall of the evening bright, And heat of Autumn noons