plains are always gold; and mossy very,
The valleys, where we breathe the healthy air,
And where we
walk on beds of flowers most fair!
The country round your Paris has its flowers and greensward,
But 'tis
too grand a dame for me, it is too dull and sad.
Here, thousand houses smile along the river's stream;
Our
sky is bright, it laughs aloud from morn to e'en.
Since month of May, when brightest weather bounds
For six months, music through the air resounds--
A thousand nightingales the shepherd's ears delight:
All
sing of Love--Love which is new and bright.
Your Opera, surprised, would silent hearken,
When day for
night has drawn aside its curtain,
Under our heavens, which very soon comes glowing.
Listen, good
God! our concert is beginning!
What notes! what raptures? Listen, shepherd-swains,
One chaunt is
for the hill-side, the other's for the plains.
"Those lofty mountains
Far up above,
I cannot see
All that
I love;
Move lower, mountains,
Plains, up-move,
That I may see
All that I love."2
And thousand voices
sound through Heaven's alcove,
Coming across the skies so blue,
Making the angels smile above--
The
earth embalms the songsters true;
The nightingales, from tree to flower,
Sing louder, fuller, stronger.
'Tis
all so sweet, though no one beats the measure,
To hear it all while concerts last--such pleasure!
Indeed
my vineyard's but a seat of honour,
For, from my hillock, shadowed by my bower,
I look upon the fields
of Agen, the valley of Verone.3
How happy am I 'mongst my vines! Such pleasures there are none.
For here I am the poet-dresser, working for the wines.
I only think of propping up my arbours and my
vines;
Upon the road I pick the little stones--
And take them to my vineyard to set them up in cones,
And
thus I make a little house with but a sheltered door--
As each friend, in his turn, now helps to make the
store.
And then there comes the vintage--the ground is firm and fast,
With all my friends, with wallets
or with baskets cast,
We then proceed to gather up the fertile grapes at last.
Oh! my young vine,
The
sun's bright shine
Hath ripened thee
All--all for me!
No drizzling showers
Have spoilt the hours.
My
muse can't borrow;
My friends, to-morrow
Cannot me lend;
But thee, young friend,
Grapes nicely drest,
With figs the finest
And raisins gather
Bind them together!
Th' abundant season
Will still us bring
A glorious
harvesting;
Close up thy hands with bravery
Upon the luscious grapery!
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 man4
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!

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