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 man[4]
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!
Footnotes to MY VINEYARD.
[1]Jasmin purchased a little piece of ground,which he dedicated to his "Curl-papers"(Papilhoto),on the road to Scaliger's villa,and addressed the above lines to his lady-admirer in Paris,Madame Louis veill.
[2]From a popular song by Gaston Phebus.
[3]Referring to Verona,the villa of Scaliger,the great scholar.
[4]Scaliger.
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 doth bring Both grapes and figs to ripening.
It was the finest fete that eyes had ever seen Under the shadow of the leafy parasol,Where aye the country-folk convene.
O'erflowing were the spaces all,From cliff,from dale,from every home Of Montagnac and Sainte-Colombe,Still they do come,Too many far to number;More,ever more,while flames the sunshine o'er,There's room for all,their coming will not cumber,The fields shall be their chamber,and the little hillocks green The couches of their slumber.
What pleasure!what delight!the sun now fills the air;The sweetest thing in life Is the music of the fife And the dancing of the fair.
You see their baskets emptying Of waffles all home-made.
They quaff the nectar sparkling Of freshest lemonade.
What crowds at Punchinello,While the showman beats his cymbal!
Crowds everywhere!
But who is this appears below?
Ah!'tis the beauteous village queen!
Yes,'tis she;'tis Franconnette!
A fairer girl was never seen.
In the town as in the prairie,You must know that every country Has its chosen pearl of love.
Ah,well!This was the one--
They named her in the Canton,The prettiest,sweetest dove.
But now,you must not fancy,gentlemen,That she was sad and sighing,Her features pale as any lily,That she had dying eyes,half-shut and blue,And slender figure clothed with languishing,Like to a weeping willow by a limpid lake.
Not so,my masters.Franconnette Had two keen flashing eyes,like two live stars;Her laughing cheeks were round,where on a lover might Gather in handfuls roses bright;Brown locks and curly decked her head;
Her lips were as the cherry red,Whiter than snow her teeth;her feet How softly moulded,small and fleet;How light her limbs!Ah,well-a-day!
And of the whole at once I say,She was the very beau-ideal Of beauty in a woman's form,most fair and real.
Such loveliness,in every race,May sudden start to light.
She fired the youths with ready love,Each maiden with despair.
Poor youths,indeed!Oh!how they wished To fall beneath her feet!
They all admired her,and adored,Just as the priest adores the cross--'Twas as if there shone a star of light The young girl's brow across!
Yet,something vexing in her soul began to hover;The finest flower had failed her in this day of honour.
Pascal,whom all the world esteemed,Pascal,the handsomest,whose voice with music beamed,He shunned the maid,cast ne'er a loving glance;Despised!She felt hate growing in her heart,And in her pretty vengeance She seized the moment for a brilliant dart Of her bright eyes to chain him.
What would you have?A girl so greatly envied,She might become a flirt conceited;Already had she seemed all this,Self-glorious she was,I fear,Coquetting rarely comes amiss,Though she might never love,with many lovers near!