Upon that tender eye, my little friend,
Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me! I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ;
"Tis sweet to watch for thee, alone for thee!
His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow;
His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm. Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow,
Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm?
Awake, my boy!-I tremble with affright!
Awake, and chase this fatal thought!-Unclose
Thine eye but for one moment on the light!
Even at the price of thine, give me repose!
Sweet error! he but slept, I breathe again;
Come gentle dreams the hour of sleep beguile!
O when shall he for whom I sigh in vain,
Beside me watch to see thy waking smile?
LOVE, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine? Nought see I fixed or sure in thee!
I do not know thee,-nor what deeds are thine:
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Nought see I fixed or sure in thee!
Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine?
Ye who are blessed in loving, tell it me:
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Nought see I permanent or sure in thee!
If ever ye return this way,
With your mournful company, A curse be on ye, and the day
That brings ye moping back to me! Hence away, begone, I say,
Carking care and melancholy!
Now Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain,
And clothes him in the embroidery
Of glittering sun and clear blue sky.
With beast and bird the forest rings,
Each in his jargon cries or sings;
And Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain.
River, and fount, and tinkling brook
Wear in their dainty livery
Drops of silver jewelry;
In new-made suit they merry look;
And Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain.
With flattering words and gentle tone,
To woo and win some guileless maid,
Cunning pander need you none,—
Friar Lubin knows the trade.
Loud preacheth he sobriety,
But as for water, doth eschew it;
Your dog may drink it,--but not he;
Friar Lubin cannot do it.
When an evil deed's to do,
Friar Lubin is stout and true;
Glimmers a ray of goodness through it,
Friar Lubin cannot do it.
DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP TURPIN.
THE archbishop, whom God loved in high degree,
Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and free;
And then his cheek more ghastly grew and wan,
And a faint shudder through his members ran.
Upon the battle-field his knee was bent;
Brave Roland saw, and to his succour went,
Straightway his helmet from his brow unlaced,
And tore the shining hauberk from his breast;
Then raising in his arms the man of God,
Gently he laid him on the verdant sod.
"Rest, Sire," he cried,-" for rest thy suffering needs."
The priest replied, “Think but of warlike deeds!
The field is ours; well may we boast this strife!
But death steals on,-there is no hope of life;
In paradise, where the almoners live again,
There are our couches spread,-there shall we rest from pain."
Sore Roland grieved; nor marvel I, alas!
That thrice he swooned upon the thick, green grass.
When he revived, with a loud voice cried he,
"O Heavenly Father! Holy Saint Marie!
Why lingers death to lay me in my grave?
Beloved France! how have the good and brave
Been torn from thee and left thee weak and poor!”
Then thoughts of Aude, his lady-love, came o'er
His spirit, and he whispered soft and slow,
"My gentle friend!-what parting full of woe!
Never so true a liegeman shalt thou see;-
Whate'er my fate, Christ's benison on thee;
Christ, who did save from realms of woe beneath
The Hebrew prophets from the second death."
Then to the paladins, whom well he knew,
He went, and one by one unaided drew
To Turpin's side, well skilled in ghostly lore ;-
No heart had he to smile,-but, weeping sore,
He blessed them in God's name, with faith that he
Would soon vouchsafe to them a glad eternity.
The archbishop, then,-on whom God's benison rest!--
Exhausted, bowed his head upon his breast;-
His mouth was full of dust and clotted gore,
And many a wound his swollen visage bore.
Slow beats his heart, his panting bosom heaves,—
Death comes apace,-no hope of cure relieves.
Towards heaven he raised his dying hands and prayed
That God, who for our sins was mortal made,-
Born of the Virgin,-scorned and crucified,-
In paradise would place him by his side.
Then Turpin died in service of Charlon,
In battle great and eke great orison;
'Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion ;-
God grant to him his holy benison !
THOU mighty Prince of Church and State,
Richelieu! until the hour of death,
Whatever road man chooses, Fate
Still holds him subject to her breath.
Spun of all silks, our days and nights
Have sorrows woven with delights;
And of this intermingled shade
Our various destiny appears,
Even as one sees the course of years
Of summers and of winters made.
Sometimes the soft, deceitful hours
Let us enjoy the halcyon wave;
Sometimes impending perit lowers
Beyond the seaman's skill to save.
The Wisdom, infinitely wise,
That gives to human destinies
Their foreordained necessity,
Has made no law more fixed below,
Than the alternate ebb and flow
Of Fortune and Adversity.
TO M. DU PERRIER, GENTLEMAN, OF AIX IN PROVENCE, ON THE DEATH OF HIS DAUGHTER.
FROM THE FRENCH OF FRANÇOIS DE MALHERBE.
WILL then, Du Perrier, thy sorrow be eternal?
And shall the sad discourse
Whispered within thy heart, by tenderness paternal,
Only augment its force?
Thy daughter's mournful fate, into the tomb descending
By death's frequented ways,
Has it become to thee a labyrinth never ending,
Where thy lost reason strays?
I know the charms that made her youth a benediction:
Nor should I be content,
As a censorious friend, to solace thine affliction,
By her disparagement.
But she was of the world, which fairest thing exposes
To fates the most forlorn;
A rose, she too hath lived as long as live the roses,
The space of one brief morn.
Death hath his rigorous laws, unparalleled, unfeeling;
All prayers to him are vain;
Cruel, he stops his ears, and, deaf to our appealing,
He leaves us to complain.
The poor man in his hut, with only thatch for cover,
Unto these laws must bend;
The sentinel that guards the barriers of the Louvre
Cannot our Kings defend.
To murmur against death, in petulant defiance,
Is never for the best;
To will what God doth will, that is the only science,
That gives us any rest.
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