He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train, The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain;And they shrink away, and they flee in fear, When thy merry step draws near.
Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old, Their beards of icicles and snow;And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold, We must cower over the embers low;And, snugly housed from the wind and weather, Mope like birds that are changing feather.
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear, When thy merry step draws near.
Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud;But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh;Thou tearest away the mournful shroud, And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly, Who has toiled for naught both late and early, Is banished afar by the new-born year, When thy merry step draws near.
THE CHILD ASLEEP
BY CLOTILDE DE SURVILLE
Sweet babe! true portrait of thy father's face, Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed!
Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast.
Upon that tender eye, my little friend, Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me!
I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend;'T is 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?
DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP TURPIN
FROM THE CHANSON DE ROLAND
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 succor 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 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.
THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL CUILLE
BY JACQUES JASMIN
Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might Rehearse this little tragedy aright;Let me attempt it with an English quill;
And take, O Reader, for the deed the will.
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At the foot of the mountain height Where is perched Castel Cuille, When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree In the plain below were growing white, This is the song one might perceive On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's Eve:
"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, So fair a bride shall pass to-day!"This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending, Seemed from the clouds descending;When lo! a merry company Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye, Each one with her attendant swain, Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain;Resembling there, so near unto the sky, Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sent For their delight and our encouragement.
Together blending, And soon descending The narrow sweep Of the hillside steep, They wind aslant Towards Saint Amant, Through leafy alleys Of verdurous valleys With merry sallies Singing their chant:
"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom, So fair a bride shall leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay, So fair a bride shall pass to-day!
It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden, With garlands for the bridal laden!
The sky was blue; without one cloud of gloom, The sun of March was shining brightly, And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly Its breathings of perfume.
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To sounds of joyous melodies, That touch with tenderness the trembling bosom, A band of maidens Gayly frolicking, A band of youngsters Wildly rollicking!
Kissing, Caressing, With fingers pressing, Till in the veriest Madness of mirth, as they dance, They retreat and advance, Trying whose laugh shall be loudest and merriest;While the bride, with roguish eyes, Sporting with them, now escapes and cries:
