A
FLEETING
GLIMPSE OF A VILLAGE.
Victor Hugo - Poems
, 1836.
]
Phoebus, is there not this side the grave,
Power to save
Those who're loving? Magic balm
That will restore to me my former calm?
Is there nothing tearful eye
Can e'er dry, or hush the sigh?
I pray Heaven day and night,
As I lay me down in fright,
To retake my life, or give
All again for which I'd live!
Phoebus, hasten from the shining sphere
To me here!
Hither hasten, bring me Death; then Love
May let our spirits rise, ever-linked, above!
LOVER'S SONG.
_("Mon ame a ton coeur s'est donnee. ")_
[ANGELO, Act II. , May, 1835. ]
My soul unto thy heart is given,
In mystic fold do they entwine,
So bound in one that, were they riven,
Apart my soul would life resign.
Thou art my song and I the lyre;
Thou art the breeze and I the brier;
The altar I, and thou the fire;
Mine the deep love, the beauty thine!
As fleets away the rapid hour
While weeping--may
My sorrowing lay
Touch thee, sweet flower.
ERNEST OSWALD COE.
A FLEETING GLIMPSE OF A VILLAGE.
_("Tout vit! et se pose avec grace. ")_
How graceful the picture! the life, the repose!
The sunbeam that plays on the porchstone wide;
And the shadow that fleets o'er the stream that flows,
And the soft blue sky with the hill's green side.
_Fraser's Magazine_.
LORD ROCHESTER'S SONG.
_("Un soldat au dur visage. ")_
[CROMWELL, ACT I. ]
"Hold, little blue-eyed page! "
So cried the watchers surly,
Stern to his pretty rage
And golden hair so curly--
"Methinks your satin cloak
Masks something bulky under;
I take this as no joke--
Oh, thief with stolen plunder! "
"I am of high repute,
And famed among the truthful:
This silver-handled lute
Is meet for one still youthful
Who goes to keep a tryst
With her who is his dearest.
I charge you to desist;
My cause is of the clearest. "
But guardsmen are so sharp,
Their eyes are as the lynx's:
"That's neither lute nor harp--
Your mark is not the minxes.
Your loving we dispute--
That string of steel so cruel
For music does not suit--
You go to fight a duel!
Phoebus, is there not this side the grave,
Power to save
Those who're loving? Magic balm
That will restore to me my former calm?
Is there nothing tearful eye
Can e'er dry, or hush the sigh?
I pray Heaven day and night,
As I lay me down in fright,
To retake my life, or give
All again for which I'd live!
Phoebus, hasten from the shining sphere
To me here!
Hither hasten, bring me Death; then Love
May let our spirits rise, ever-linked, above!
LOVER'S SONG.
_("Mon ame a ton coeur s'est donnee. ")_
[ANGELO, Act II. , May, 1835. ]
My soul unto thy heart is given,
In mystic fold do they entwine,
So bound in one that, were they riven,
Apart my soul would life resign.
Thou art my song and I the lyre;
Thou art the breeze and I the brier;
The altar I, and thou the fire;
Mine the deep love, the beauty thine!
As fleets away the rapid hour
While weeping--may
My sorrowing lay
Touch thee, sweet flower.
ERNEST OSWALD COE.
A FLEETING GLIMPSE OF A VILLAGE.
_("Tout vit! et se pose avec grace. ")_
How graceful the picture! the life, the repose!
The sunbeam that plays on the porchstone wide;
And the shadow that fleets o'er the stream that flows,
And the soft blue sky with the hill's green side.
_Fraser's Magazine_.
LORD ROCHESTER'S SONG.
_("Un soldat au dur visage. ")_
[CROMWELL, ACT I. ]
"Hold, little blue-eyed page! "
So cried the watchers surly,
Stern to his pretty rage
And golden hair so curly--
"Methinks your satin cloak
Masks something bulky under;
I take this as no joke--
Oh, thief with stolen plunder! "
"I am of high repute,
And famed among the truthful:
This silver-handled lute
Is meet for one still youthful
Who goes to keep a tryst
With her who is his dearest.
I charge you to desist;
My cause is of the clearest. "
But guardsmen are so sharp,
Their eyes are as the lynx's:
"That's neither lute nor harp--
Your mark is not the minxes.
Your loving we dispute--
That string of steel so cruel
For music does not suit--
You go to fight a duel!
