And purpled robes of Tyrian hue,
Enwrought with gems to charm the view,
Or all the costly vestments spread
Around the forms of monarchs dead.
HOW TO BEAR WITH FORTUNE.
OH! fools of fools, and mortal fools,
Who prize so much what Fortune gives;
Say, is there aught man owns or rules
In this same earth whereon he lives?
What do his proper rights embrace,
Save the fair gifts of Nature's grace?
If from you, then, by Fortune's spite,
The goods you deem your own be torn,
No wrong is done the while, but right;
For you had nought when you were born.
the dark-brown hours of night
No more in dreaming how you may
Best load your chests with golden freight;
Crave nought beneath the moon, I pray,
From Paris even to Pampelune,
Saving alone such simple boon
As needful is for life below.
Enough if fame your name adorn,
And you to earth with honour go;
For you had nought when you were born.
When all things were for common use-
Apples, all blithesome fruits of trees,
Nuts, honey, and each gum and juice,
Both man and woman too could please.
Strife never vexed these meals of old:
Be patient, then, of heat and cold;
Esteem not Fortune's favours sure;
And of her gifts when you are shorn,
With moderate grief your loss endure;
For you had nought when you were born.
If Fortune does you any spite-
Should even the coat be from you
Pray, blame her not-it is her right;
For you had nought when you were born.
-CHARTIER, 1386-1447.
THE WILD-FIRES.
Он, summer eve, and village peace,
Clear skies, sweet odours, gushing streams!
Ye blest my childhood's simple dreams;
To cheer my age, oh do not cease!
World-wearied, here I love to dwell,
For even these merry wild-fires tell
Of youth and sweet simplicity.
Oft did my heart with terror swell
As from their dance I wont to fly.
I've lost that blissful ignorance;
Dance, merry wild-fires, dance, dance.
On wakeful nights the tale went round
Of Jack-a-lantern, cunning, cruel,
With watch-fires of no earthly fuel,
Guardian of treasures under ground.
They told of goblins, unblest powers,
Ghosts, sorcerers, and mysterious hours,
Of dragons huge that ever flitted
Around all dark and ancient towers:
Such tales my easy faith admitted.
Age hath dispelled my youthful trance;
Dance, pretty wild-fires, dance, dance.
Scarce ten years old, one winter night,
Bewildered on the lonely swamp,
I saw the wild-fire trim his lamp;
"It is my grandame's cheerful light—
A pretty cake she has for me,"
I said, and ran with infant glee.
A shepherd filled my soul with dread;
"Oh foolish boy, the lamp you see
Lights up the revels of the dead."
Dispelled is now my youthful trance:
Dance, merry wild-fires, dance, dance.
Love-stirred, at sixteen once I stole
By the old curate's lonely mound :
The wild-fires danced his grave around:
I paused to bless the curate's soul.
From regions of the slumbering dead,
Methought the aged curate said,
"Alas! unhappy reprobate,
So soon hath beauty turned thy head!" That night I feared the frowns of fate. Still let the voice my ear entrance; Dance, merry wild-fires, dance, dance.
BE faithful still, thou poor dear coat of mine!
We, step for step, are both becoming old,
Ten years these hands have brushed that nap of thine,
And Socrates did never more, I hold.
When to fresh tear and wear the time to be
Shall force thy sore-thinned texture to submit,
Be philosophic, and resist like me :
Mine ancient friend, we must not sunder yet.
Full well I mind, for I forget not much,
The day that saw thee first upon me put:
My birthday 'twas, and as a crowning touch
Unto my pride, my friends all praised thy cut.
Thy indigence, which does me no disgrace,
Has never caused these kindly friends to flit.
Each at my fête yet shows a gladsome face :
Mine ancient friend, we must not sunder yet.
A goodly darn I on thy skirts espy,
And thereby hangs a sweet remembrance still.
Feigning one eve from fond Lisette to fly,
She held by thee to balk my seeming will.
The tug was followed by a grievous rent,
And then her side of course I could not quit:
Two days Lisette on that vast darning spent:
Mine ancient friend, we must not sunder yet.
Have e'er I made thee reek with musky steams,
Such as your self-admiring fools exhale?
Have I exposed thee, courting great men's beams,
To levee mock or antechamber rail?
A strife for ribbons all the land of France,
From side to side, well nigh asunder split :
From thy lapelle nothing but wild flowers glance:
Mine ancient friend, we must not sunder yet.
Fear no renewal of those courses vain,
Those madcap sports which once employed our hours-
Hours of commingled joyfulness and pain,
Of sunshine chequered here and there with showers.
I rather ought, methinks, thy faded cloth
From every future service to acquit :
But wait a while-one end will come to both:
Mine ancient friend, we shall not sunder yet.
You said, "Come up to Paris, shepherd boy;
Obey the impulse of a nobler lot;
Books, gold, the theatre, with novel joy,
Shall make thy rural scenes be soon forgot."
Well, I am here; but oh, my heart is pain!
Beneath these ardent fires my spring decays:
Give me my quiet hamlet back again,
And the free hills of childhood's happy days.
The cold dull fever creeps through all my veins;
Yet all my ways are moulded to your will.
At the gay balls, where women move as queens,
The sad home-sickness preys upon me still.
Study has graced my language--but in vain;
In vain your arts have met my dazzled sight:
Give me my quiet hamlet back again,
And my old Sundays sacred to delight.
Ye spurn the legends which the shepherd tells;
The
gross gay song, the old romantic tale:
Matching the miracles of fairy spells,
Your opera scenes would turn our wizards pale.
Heaven's homage poured in highest, holiest strains,
May choose your music for its glowing tongues:
Give me my quiet hamlet back again,
And its long eves of legends and of
Our poor small cots, our church that, crumbling, stoops,
Even in my eyes are mean: while day by day,
Here I admire these monumental groups,
And most your Louvre, with its gardens gay.
See where it seems, in evening's glowing wane,
A glorious mirage in the golden ray:
Give me my quiet hamlet back again,
Its poor dear cottages and belfry gray.
Convert the savage idol-worshipper:
Dying, his gods reclaim him ere he sleeps.
For me expectant waits my cottage cur;
My mother thinks of our adieu, and weeps.
I've seen the avalanche and hurricane,
And bears and wolves destroy my struggling sheep:
Give me my quiet hamlet back again,
The well-remembered crook and scanty scrip.
What joyful tidings greet the exile's ears!
You say, "Depart, with morning's earliest hours;
Thy native breezes shall dry up thy tears,
Thy suns again shall fill thy heart with flowers."
Adieu, broad, brilliant city of the Seine!
Where, as in chains, the pining stranger stays:
Give me my quiet hamlet back again,
And the free hills of childhood's happy days.
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