I have blasted many an honoured name; I have taken virtue and given shame; I have tempted the youth with a sip, a taste, That has made his future a barren waste.
Far greater than any king am I, Or than any army beneath the sky.
I have made the arm of the driver fail, And sent the train from the iron rail.
I have made good ships go down at sea, And the shrieks of the lost were sweet to me.
Fame, strength, wealth, genius before me fall; And my might and power are over all!
Ho, ho! pale brother," said the wine, "Can you boast of deeds as great as mine?"
Said the water-glass: "I cannot boast Of a king dethroned, or a murdered host, But I can tell of hearts that were sad By my crystal drops made bright and glad; Of thirsts I have quenched, and brows I have laved; Of hands I have cooled, and souls I have saved.
I have leapt through the valley, dashed down the mountain, Slept in the sunshine, and dripped from the fountain.
I have burst my cloud-fetters, and dropped from the sky, And everywhere gladdened the prospect and eye; I have eased the hot forehead of fever and pain; I have made the parched meadows grow fertile with grain.
I can tell of the powerful wheel of the mill, That ground out the flour, and turned at my will.
I can tell of manhood debased by you, That I have uplifted and crowned anew.
I cheer, I help, I strengthen and aid; I gladden the heart of man and maid; I set the wine-chained captive free, And all are better for knowing me."
These are the tales they told each other, The glass of wine and its paler brother, As they sat together, filled to the brim, On a rich man's table, rim to rim.
LA MORT D'AMOUR
When was it that love died? We were so fond, So very fond a little while ago.
With leaping pulses, and blood all aglow, We dreamed about a sweeter life beyond, When we should dwell together as one heart, And scarce could wait that happy time to come.
Now side by side we sit with lips quite dumb, And feel ourselves a thousand miles apart.
How was it that love died? I do not know.
I only know that all its grace untold Has faded into gray! I miss the gold From our dull skies; but did not see it go.
Why should love die? We prized it, I am sure; We thought of nothing else when it was ours; We cherished it in smiling, sunlit bowers:
It was our all; why could it not endure?
Alas, we know not how, or when, or why This dear thing died. We only know it went, And left us dull, cold, and indifferent; We who found heaven once in each other's sigh.
How pitiful it is, and yet how true That half the lovers in the world, one day, Look questioning in each other's eyes this way And know love's gone forever, as we do.
Sometimes I cannot help but think, dear heart, As I look out o'er all the wide, sad earth And see love's flame gone out on many a hearth, That those who would keep love must dwell apart.
LOVE'S SLEEP
(Vers de Societe)
We'll cover Love with roses, And sweet sleep he shall take None but a fool supposes Love always keeps awake.
I've known loves without number - True loves were they, and tried; And just for want of slumber They pined away and died.
Our love was bright and cheerful A little while agone; Now he is pale and tearful, And--yes, I've seen him yawn.
So tired is he of kisses That he can only weep; The one dear thing he misses And longs for now is sleep.
We could not let him leave us One time, he was so dear, But now it would not grieve us If he slept half a year.
For he has had his season, Like the lily and the rose, And it but stands to reason That he should want repose.
We prized the smiling Cupid Who made our days so bright; But he has grown so stupid We gladly say good-night.
And if he wakens tender And fond, and fair as when He filled our lives with splendour, We'll take him back again.
And should he never waken, As that perchance may be, We will not weep forsaken, But sing, "Love, tra-la-lee!"
TRUE CULTURE
The highest culture is to speak no ill, The best reformer is the man whose eyes Are quick to see all beauty and all worth; And by his own discreet, well-ordered life, Alone reproves the erring.
When thy gaze Turns in on thine own soul, be most severe.
But when it falls upon a fellow-man Let kindliness control it; and refrain From that belittling censure that springs forth From common lips like weeds from marshy soil.
THE VOLUPTUARY
Oh, I am sick of love reciprocated, Of hopes fulfilled, ambitions gratified.
Life holds no thing to be anticipated, And I am sad from being satisfied.
The eager joy felt climbing up a mountain Has left me now the highest point is gained.
The crystal spray that fell from Fame's fair fountain Was sweeter than the waters were when drained.
The gilded apple which the world calls pleasure, And which I purchased with my youth and strength, Pleased me a moment. But the empty treasure Lost all its lustre, and grew dim at length.
And love, all glowing with a golden glory, Delighted me a season with its tale.
It pleased the longest, but at last the story, So oft repeated, to my heart grew stale.
I lived for self, and all I asked was given, I have had all, and now am sick of bliss, No other punishment designed by Heaven Could strike me half so forcibly as this.
I feel no sense of aught but enervation In all the joys my selfish aims have brought, And know no wish but for annihilation, Since that would give me freedom from the thought Oh, blest is he who has some aim defeated; Some mighty loss to balance all his gain.
For him there is a hope not yet completed; For him hath life yet draughts of joy and pain.
But cursed is he who has no balked ambition, No hopeless hope, no loss beyond repair, But sick and sated with complete fruition, Keeps not the pleasure even of despair.
THE COQUETTE
