Site availability. Site assistance. United States English English. IBM Support. Product Readmes Abstract Readme documentation for version 8. About Fix Pack 15 8. Check here for more information. Back to Top. Space requirements. Steps for installing Fix Pack 15 8. Known issues. Change history. Additional information. Trademarks and service marks. It was at the commencement of the twelfth century that the French began to have a common language. Prior to that period the present language was written in Normandy, and some anti- quarians regard the Normans, not the Provengaux, as the patriarchs of French song.
The Troubadours, who are traced by some to the days of Homer, while others fix their origin at the compara- tively recent date of ii6, reached their culminating point of glory in the earlier portion of the fourteenth century. Rambaud de la Vacherie so highly pleased one of the Counts of Toulouse by his lyrical effusions, that the latter dubbed him a knight, took him to the crusades, and eventually made him governor of the city of Salonica ; and this is only one instance among many of the kind. The poet was always a musician, and for the most part composed his own airs ; but this is not saying much.
Musical art was quite in its infancy, and the dull plain song, composed in notes of equal value, contrast strangely with the light and gallant themes of the poetry. Spring, flowers, birds, and of course ladies, are the themes. The fact that poetry was a profitable art by no means excluded its cultivation from the studies of persons of the highest rank.
The Emperor Frederick I. A prize for the best composition was offered at a somewhat later period, and the victor in the poetical combat received a golden violet from the hands of the president, who proclaimed his triumph aloud. Two other flowers in silver were afterwards offered as inferior prizes. No less than one hundred and twenty French poets also flourished about and previous to this time, plentiful specimens of which will be found in the French collections of Troubadour literature.
He receives this honour not so much on account of his antiquity as on account of his merit, the French critics deciding that the poets who pre- ceded him are not worthy of the name. The interval between the close of the fourteenth cen'tury and the reign of Francis I,, which began in , was not distinguished by literary productiveness.
The wars between the rival parties of Armagnac and Burgundy, and the occupation of France by the English, were stem realities, which distracted the mind of the '' See Miss Costello's " Specimens of the Early Poetry of France," following these Songs. A love of the beauties of nature in her tranquil moods, accompanied by a power of accumulating pleasant details, was the characteristic of the best poets of this epoch.
The origin of the word vaudeville, — Avhich once denoted a kind of song, but now denotes a dramatic piece, — is placed in this period. Olivier Basselin, a fuller of Vire in Normandy, who distinguished himself from his more refined and more pious pre- decessors, by chanting coarse jovial strains in praise, not of fair ladies or of saints, but of wine and cider, is supposed to be the inventor of the vau-dc-vire, — a word which has since been corrupted into vaudeville. It is questionable, however, whether this honour of originating the vauda'ille really belongs to him, and still more questionable whether his works have come down to posterity in the form in which he wrote them.
These are marked in many instances by a coarse comical moral, and are said to have been studied with much profit by the famous La Fontaine. Francis I. Among the most precious is a vellum manuscript, con- taining all the songs of Francis I. The great names in this age, which may be extended to the end of the sixteenth century, are those of Clement Marot, St Gelais, Du Bellay, Jodelle, Ronsard, Belleau, Passerat, and Baif, To the last of these is attributed the honour of being the first person who endeavoured to enrich the French with a national music of their own.
He was the inventor of those ballets which formed so essential an amusement at the royal coinrts till the reign of Louis XIV. The troubles of the League gave an impulse to song writing. Most of the songs had reference to the politics of the time ; but licentious Jitties were also in vogue, and so far exceeded the bounds of propriety, that at an assembly of the States General, held at f ontainebleau, a project for checking a license which seemed so detrimental to morality was discussed.
The most famous song writers of this period were Desportes and Bertaut. They were the immediate predecessors of Regnier and Malherbe, the latter of whom is usually considered the first classical writer of French poetry. King Henry IV. The Bacchanalian Song, which indeed has always occupied an important place in French lyrical poetry, from the days of Olivier Basselin to the present time, was also much cultivated ; and the Marquis de Racan, who was one of the earliest members of the French Academy, gained a reputation in this class of Hterature which is not yet extinct.
However, shortly before Richelieu's death, two artisans, Adam Billaut of Nevers, and Olivier Massias of Angouleme, created a great sensation by their rhymes. The songs of the first of these, who is generally called Maitre Adam, are considered models of their kind, and obtained for the poet the honour of an introduc- tion to the King and Richelieu. In the reign of Louis XIV. An attempt to name the poets of this long and prolific reign would only produce a tedious list of authors, many of whom no longer live in the memory of the people. Among the poets of the King's minority we may mention Voiture, Scarron, and Bois Robert, who was esteemed the best song writer of his day, but whose productions are now little respected.
A great but transient popularity was attained by the Baron de Blot, sumamed Blot- I'Esprit, who chiefly distinguished himself by satirizing Cardinal Mazarin, Dufresny and the Abbe de Lattaignant, whose songs were fashionable at the court of Louis XIV,, are celebrated even at the present day. Songs, nominally pastoral, but really artificial in the highest degree, were in vogue at the time to which we are now referring ; and works of that Phyllis-and-Chloe school of poetry, which once deluged the lyrical world in England, are to be found in great abundance among the treasures of French song.
All this sort of thing has long past away, and is deemed not antique, but old- fashioned. With Panard, a convivial poet who flourished durinsj the earlier half of the eighteenth century, begins that modem school of French lyrical poetry which still exists in full vigour, and he may fairly be called the poetical ancestor of Beranger, During the minority of Louis XV.
All the lyric poets of the day were in the habit of meeting at the house of a tradesman named Gallet, who, together with Piron, Crebillon the Younger, and Collet, — all, as well as himself, poets of celebrity, — founded in a singing club entitled Les Diners dti Caveaic. In the reign of Louis XVI. The famous Carmagnole, with which the Parisian mob insulted the unfortunate King and Queen during their imprisonment in the Temple, stands as a curious monument of ribald joviality by the side of those more sublime revolutionary songs, in which the aspirations of the French republicans are eloquently set forth ; and we have still specimens of comic poetry on the subject of the guillotine, written during the horrors of The proclamation of a sort of theatrical free-trade in led to the establishment of a particular theatre for the performance of those hght musical pieces, which are so familiar to every habitue of the French drama by the name of vaudeville.
During the Con- sulate of Napoleon, song once more lost its solemn and ferocious character, and in the principal poets of the new theatre formed themselves into a club entitled Diners du Vaudeville. The fortunes of the theatre greatly regulated the fortunes of this society, for, according to a standing rule, composed in rhyme, no person could be admitted as a member who had not produced three pieces, two of which had escaped condemnation.
Thus, as the number of successful authors increased, the dinner parties, which were held in the house of an actor named JuUiet, became larger. The perpetual president was Laujon, a veteran bard and hon vivant, who sang of love and wine at the age of eighty-four, and died, it is said, humming a joyous tune ; and one of its brightest ornaments was Desaugiers, a song writer whose name is only second to that of Beranger himself, from whom at the same time he is perfectly distinct. In 18 15 it was dissolved, in consequence of the diversity of political opinion that prevailed at that period.
It revived, indeed, in , but its reputation did not revive with it. Beranger was one of the members of the Cauvcan Modcnte in its best days, but he did not attain his high celebrity till after 5, when he stood as the chief poetical opponent of the court and the aristocracy. Vocal societies, emulous of the fame ot the Caveau Moderne, were founded in several French towns, and also in Paris itself, for the admission of persons who could not be received into the Caveau.
The first of these minor Parisian societies was the Societe de Momus, rendered illustrious by the name of Emile Debreaux, one of the most popular poets that France ever produced. In the supremacy among these societies was held by the Gymnase Lyrique, which had been founded in , and which, in imitation of the Caveau, published an annual volume of songs. The Revolution of July brought with it, not only a revival of the republican songs of the last century, but also several new compositions, the most famous of which were by the illustrious dramatist, Casimir Delavigne.
For a while songs in a strain of enthusiastic nationality eclipsed every other kind of lyrical expres- sion, and the lighter themes, which had been so happily touched by the French poets for many ages, began to be disregarded, Beranger, who, before the Restoration, had sung the joys of a happy poverty, and since that event had been the constant scourge of the elder Bourbons, — Beranger, who had raised French song to a classical importance never before known, — even Beranger, who heartily sympathized with the Revolution of July, began to think that the " reign of song was over.
The founder of this society was Charles Lepage, an eccentric poet, who sometimes earned a good liveli- hood by writing motto-verses for the vendors of bon-bons. Several of the most popular songs owe their origin to this society. A new epoch in French song was created by the Revolution of The revolutionary songs of the last century were violently warlike and republican, but they were free from that communistic tendency which now so frequently accompanies the profession of republican sentiments.
Here ends the history of song considered as complete in itself, and independent of the drama. The subdivision which might be made of this large class of Lyrical Poems will be too plainly perceived, from the specimens themselves, to need any introductory remark. King Fkancis I. Bom , died As at my window — all alone — 1 stood about the break of day, Upon my left Aurora shone, To guide Apollo on his way. Upon my right I could behold My love, who combed her locks of gold; I saw the lustre of her eyes, And, as a glance on me she cast.
Cried, "Gods, retire behind your skies. Your brightness is by hers surpassed. All meaner orbs must faintly glow. Thus did my lady, on that day, EcUpse Apollo's brighter ray, Whereat he was so sore distrest His face with clouds he overcast, And I exclaimed, "That course is best,— Your brightness is by hers surpassed. And was I WTong? I hope to conquer fear at last, By crying, "Keep behind your skies, Ye gods, your lustre is surpassed!
Comme Phcebd, quand ce bas lieu terrestre, Par sa clarte, de nuit illuminoit, Toute lueur demeuroit en sequestre : Car sa splendeur toutes autres minoit. Ainsi ma dame en son regard tenoit Tout obscurci le soleil radieux. Dont de depit, lui triste et soucieux, Sur les humains lors ne daigna plus luire; Par quoi, lui dis : Vous faites pour le mieux ', Car la beaute de ceste vous empire. O que de joie en mon coeur sentis naistre, Quand j'apper9us que Phoebus retoumoit! Car je craignois qu' amoureux voulust estre Du doux objet qui mon coeur detenoit.
Avois-je tort? Non: car, s'il y venoit Quelque mortel, j'en serois soucieux. Devois-je pas doncques craindre les dieux, Et despriser, pour fuir un tel martire, En leur criant: Retournez dans vos cieux; Car la beaute de ceste vous empire. Philis qui me voit le teint blhnc. Francois ds Malherbes. Born , died FniDfOis de Malherbes is regarded as the father of modem French poetry. Earlier writers are without the pale of classicality. Phillis sees me pine away, Sees my ravished senses stray, DouTi my cheeks the tear-drops creeping.
When she seeks the cause of pain, Of her charms she is so vain That she thinks for her I'm weeping. Sorry I should be, forsooth.
Did I vex her with the truth. Yet it surely is permitted Just to point out her mistakes, When herself the cause she makes Of a crime she ne'er committed. Which, she thinks, can triumph o'er me; So that, deeming her divine, I can languish, Aveep and pine, With so plain a truth before me. Mine would be an easy case If a happy resting-place In her den she could insure me; Then for solace to my woe Far I should not have to go, — E'en the vilest herbs might cure me.
Glycera commands my fate. As she pleases to dictate Death is near or at a distance. Sure of ice that heart is made Which no pity can invade. Even for a single minute; But whatever faults I see. In my soul still bideth she, — Room for thee is not within it. Philis qui me voit le teint bleme, Les sens ravis de moi-meme, Et les yeux trempe's chaque jour, Cherchant la cause de ma peine, Se figure, tant elle est vaine, Qu'elle m'a donne de I'amour. En quelle ecole nompareille Auroit-elle appris la merveille De si bien charmer ses appas, Que je pusse la trouver belle, Palir, transir, languir pour elle, Et ne m'en appercevoir pas?
Oh qu'il me seroit desirable Que je ne fusse miserable Que pour etre dans sa prison! Mon mal ne m'etonneroit gueres, Et les herbes les plus vulgaires M'en donneroient la gue'rison. C'est de Glycere que procbdent Tous les ennuis qui me possedent, Sans remede et sans reconfort : Glycere fait mes destinees; Et comme il lui plait, mes anndes Sent ou pres ou loin de la mort. C'est bien un courage de glace, Ou la pitie n'a point de place, Et que rien ne pent e'mouvoir; Mais, quelque de'faut que j'y blame, Je ne puis I'oter de mon ame, Non plus que vous y recevoir. Attributed to King Henry IV.
When she sings, Soon she brings List'ners out from ev'ry cot, Pensive swains Hush their strains. All their sorrows are forgot. She is fair, Past compare.
One small hand her waist can span. Eyes of light — Stars, though bright. Match those eyes you never can. Hebe blest. La bergere, Qui m'est chere, Est vermeille comme toi. De rosee Arrosee, La rose a moins de fraicheur; Une hermine Est moins fine; Le lait a moins de blancheur. Cruel tyran de mes desirs. Marquis de Racan. Honorat de Bueil, Marquis de Racan, was one of the most celebrated poets of the seventeenth century, and one of the first members of the French Academy.
Oh, let me to the rocks confess The secret of my heart's distress! The silence of these woods is deep, My secret they will never tell; Here constantly the echoes sleep, And here repose will ever dwell. The zephyrs only can confess The secret of my heart's distress. These shady boughs, so thickly spread, ConsoHng to my grief appear; The bitter tear-drops that I shed Seem to receive a welcome here. Here, only here, I can confess The secret of my heart's distress.
Though passion urges me to speak Whene'er the lovely nymph is near. She, who my heart can captive make. Then makes my tongue her fetters wear. To her I do not dare confess, E'en by a sigh, my heart's distress.
Her eyes seem not of mortal birth, Nought rivals their celestial fires. The Maker of the heavens and earth In them His masterpiece admires; Her beauty, — that, I will confess, Is worthy of my heart's distress. If kindly fortune will, at last, ShoAv that I have not prayed in vain. If after many seasons past. My love its rich reward shall gain, — Then to the rocks will I confess How lovers taste true happiness. I'll love thee while the rosy-fingered dawn Heralds the day-god's coming reign of light ; I '11 love thee while the goddess Flora's gifts Adorn fair bosoms with their blossoms bright.
I'll love thee whilst the swallows to their nests Return upon the breezes of the spring; I'll love thee while the turtles of the wood Their mournful love-lays on the branches sing. I '11 love thee while the tranquil wave reflects The light and colour of the summer heaven; I'll love thee while great Nature's precious gifts To us and to the earth are yearly given. I'll love thee while the shepherd trusts his dog. The faithful guardian of his fleecy care; I '11 love thee while the butterfly delights To hover o'er June's blossoms, sweet and fair.
II I '11 love thee while upon the flow'ry mead The happy lambkin finds a sweet repose ; I 'II love thee — soul of my own life! I '11 love thee while a spark of Love's bright torch Shall light the path of life with faintest ray; Our soul was given us that we might love, And I will love thee till my dying day! Charles Riviere Dufresny was not only a poet, but also a musician and draughtsman, and an architect of some renown in the reign of Louis XIV, It was, however, as a poet he was most famous ; and while he shone in light comedy, he is looked upon as the predecessor in many respects of the more celebrated Abbe Lattaignant HiLLis, somewhat hard by nature, Would not an advantage miss, She asked Damon — greedy creature!
Lovely Phillis, on the morrow, Cannot her advantage keep; She gives Damon, to her sorrow, Thirty kisses for one sheep. Now another day is over, Damon sheep and dog might get For the kiss which he — the rover! Les Souhaits. The Abb6 de Lattaignant. Few writere have attained greater celebrity in their day than the Abbe Lattaignant, whose facility in writing and singing songs made him the delight of the fashionable circles in Paris tosvards the middle of the last century.
Oh, my dearest I Oh, my fairest! For thy favour I implore. I will be True to thee, I will love thee evermore. If I had an hundred hearts Never should one stray from thee, If I had an hundred hearts Every one should feel thy darts. If an hundred eyes were mine. Thee alone those eyes would see; If an hundred eyes were mine Every one on thee would shine. If an hundred tongues I had, They should speak of nought but thee; If an hundred tongues I had. All should talk of thee, like mad. If I were a potent god Then immortal thou shouldst be, If I were a potent god All should worship at thy nod.
If five hundred souls you wete All should love this beauty rare. Had you reached your hundredth year- Young mth her would Nestor be, — Had you reached your hundredth year Spring through her would re-appear. Fidele A cette belle, Je I'aimerai toujours. Si j 'avals cent coeurs, lis ne seraient remplis que d'elle; Si j'avais cent coeurs, Aucun d'eux n'aimerait ailleurs. Si j'avais cent yeux. Ills seraient tons fixe's sur elle; Si j'avais cent yeux, lis ne verraient qu'elle en tons lieux.
Si j'dtais un dieu, Je voudrais la rendre immortelle ; Si j'dtais un dieu On I'adorerait en tout lieu. Eussiez-vous cent ans, Nestor rajeunirait pour eile; Eussiez-vous cent ans, Vous retrouveriez le printemps. Ma mie, Ma douce amie, Reponds a mes amours. Ah Dim! Jean Desmarets. I wait upon a fickle dame. And though she's false, I love her still. More constant is the roving wind, More constant is the rolling sea ; Proteus was apt to change, we find, — He never changed so oft as she. On me she now bestows her grace. Love 's not enough, she will adore ; Now lets another take my place, And vows she ne'er saw me before.
But whatsoever faults I see, This is the grief I most deplore, — I cannot set my spirit free. In spite of all, I must adore. They will not leave the ancient track. De Leyke. Died This romance is a French cradle-song — familiar to many generations. Ye joyous birds — a loving crowd — For pity, sing no more, I pray; For my true love, who made me blest. Is gone to countries far away. For treasures of the rich New World He flies from love, and death he braves; With happiness secured in port, Why should he seek it on the waves? Ye swallows of the wandering wing, Whom every spring return we see — Faithful, although ye wander far — Oh, bring my lover back to me!
What young lady, who has taken half a dozen lessons on the piano, is unacquainted with the air of ' 'A h! The words, which are anonymous, are less generally known. H, mamma, how can I tell In my heart what torments dwell? Since I saw that handsome swain Eyeing me, could I refrain From this little wicked thought : — Without loving — life is nought? Me into a bower he took, And with wreaths adorned my crook, Which of choicest flowers he made. Then, "My dear brunette," he said, "Flora's charms are less than thine, Ne'er was love to equal mine.
Then I feigned to sink with dread, Then I from his clutches fled. But Mhen I was safe at last, Through my heart the question past, Mingling hope mth bitter pain : Shall I see his face again? Shepherdesses, mark my words, Nothing love, beside your herds. Of the shepherds pray beware. If they look with tender air. If they tender thoughts reveal, Oh, what torment you may feel! Depuis que j'ai vu Silvandre Me regarder d'un air tendre, Mon coeur dit k tout moment : Peut-on vivre sans amant?
L'autre jour dans un bosquet, De fleurs il fit un bouquet, II en para ma houlette, Me disant: "Belle brunette, Flore est moins belle que toi, L'amour moins tendre que moi. Je rougis et, par malheur, Un soupir trahit mon coeur; Silvandre, en amant, habile, Ne joua pas I'imbecile : Je veux fuir, il ne veut pas : Jugez de mon embarras. Je fis semblant d'avoir peur, Je m'echappai par bonheur; J'eus recours h. Mais quelle peine secrete Se mele dans mon espoir, Si je ne puis le revoir. Bergeres de ce hameau, N'aimez que votre troupeau, Un berger, prenez-y garde, S'il vous aime, vous regarde, Et s'exprime tendrement, Peut vous causer du tourment.
Je ne veux pas me press er. The Duke de NiveRnois. When we're handsome, young, and gay. Good mamma, when at my age, Youth's dehghts, no doubt, would taste ; I shall be, too, — I '11 engage, When my time comes, — won- drous sage, But I 'II not show over-haste. When the men torment us so — We should fly, but not with haste.
Most indifferent I appear, Though his words are to my taste, And my tender heart, I fear, I shall give it up, oh, dear! But I'll not show over-haste. I have seen how turtle-doves, Though a tenderness they feel For their ardent feathered loves, Show a firm resistance still. Such their lovers ne'er forsake — Binding vows I, too, will make, But I '11 not show over-haste. Fauvre Jacques. This little song, which was quite the rage a few years before the first Revolt;tion, owed its origin to a circumstance which occurred while the " Petite Suisse," an artificial Swiss village, R-as constructed at the Little Trianon, for the amusement of Queen Marie Antoinette.
Swiss peasant-girl, who was brought from Switzerland with some cows to heighten the illusion, was observed to look melancholy, and the exclamation " Pauvre Jacques! Jacques, and gave her a wedding portion : while the Marchioness de Travanet was moved lo write the song of " Paiivrc Jacques," to which she also composed the music. Poor Jacques, when I was close to thee, No sense of want my fancy crossed; But now thou livest far from me, I feel that all on earth is lost.
When thou my humble toil Avouldst share, I felt ray daily labours light; Then every day appeared so fair; But what can make the present bright? I cannot bear the sun's bright ray, When on the furrowed plain it falls; When through the shady wood I stray, All nature round my heart appals. Poor Jacques, when I was close to thee, No sense of want my fancy crossed ; But now thou livest far from me, I feel that all on earth is lost.
Quand le soleil brille sur nos gue'rets, Je ne puis souflfrir la lumiere : Et quand je suis a I'ombre des forets, J 'accuse la nature entibre. Zes Infidelites de Lisette. At the age of nine years he witnessed the taking of the Bastille, which made an indelible impression on his memory. Shortly afterwards he left Paris for Peronne, where he became apprentice in the printing establishment of M.
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Laisney, and the task of couiposing seems to have given him the first notions of li. A primary school founded at Peronne, on the principles of Jean Jacques Rousseau, completed his youthful education ; and when he returned to Paris, at the age of sixteen, he began to wnte epic, dramatic, and religious poems, inspired by studies of Moliere and Chateaubriand.
At the same time, however, while suffering the severest privations, he made several essays in that style of writing to which he owes his celebrity, and to this period of his life belong those Ij-rical expressions of a joyous poverty, of which. The poverty of Beranger proved at last too much for his patience, indomitable as this virtue appears in his effusions. Lucien was a patron of literature, and at once obtained for Beranger an allowance from the Institute.
The fortunes of the poet now took a new turn, and in i8oq he obtained an appointment connected with the University, which he held for twelve years. His salary never exceeded 2, francs ;C8o , but as his habits were extremely simple, this was all he required, and his natural love of independence prevented him from soliciting promotion.
As yet his principal themes of song were the joys of the bottle and the charms of the Grisette ; though he gave signs of his future political tendency by two of his most popular songs, Le Senatenr and Lc Roi d'Vvciot. It was after the Restoration that he assumed that indignant tone, in which he endeavoured to stimulate the hatred of the masses against the Court, the aristocracy, and the foreigners who had brought back the Bourbons. Through the freedom of the songs which he now WTOte, he not only lost his situation, but was subjected to a heavy fine and three months' imprisonment.
This punishment only served to increase his audacity. The Revolution of July not only put an end to the persecutions of the poet, but opened a path to fortune. However, that love of independence, which is his noblest characteristic, would not allow him to accept any place even under a friendly government.
He still continued to publish his songs, and even, when after the Revolution of he was elected a member of the Constituent Assembly by more than , votes, he resigned his honours as speedily as possible. As a happy appearance of spontaneity constitutes one of the principal charms of Beranger's poems, the following remarks by M. Destigny, who has written a tolerably elaborate article on the poet in the " Nouvelle Biographie Universelle," will probably surprise those who imagine that easy reading is an indication of easy writing : " Beranger produces nothing at the first impulse, or as the result of a happy inspiration.
He broods over his thoughts, matures them, analyses them, and connects them before he casts them into the mould which is to give them their form. It is not until he has got the ensemble of his work that he arranges the separate parts, and polishes it with that scrupulous care and inimit- able tact which were employed by Benvenuto Cellini in the carving of a crown. Even in his most trifling songs it is impossible to discover a single useless epithet or forced expression. His style is clear, precise, and pure to a degree which sets all criticism at defiance.
To beg a drop in vain. Lisette, O my Lisette, You're false — but let that pass — A health to the grisette; And to our love, Lisette, I '11 fill another glass. Young Lindor swaggers so, Your cunning he defies; I own he whispers low, But then he loudly sighg. Clitander — happy knave — With him I found you out : The kisses that he gave You took without a pout, And then repaid him more : Base girl, remember this.
And let my glass run o'er, — A bumper for each kiss! Mondor, who ribbons brings, And knick-knacks which you prize. Has ventured on strange things Before my very eyes; I've seen enough to make A modest person blush; Another glass I'll take These rogueries to hush. One evening to your door I came with noiseless tread, A thief, who came before.
From out your window fled. I had, before that day, Made that same rascal flee. Another bottle, pray. Lest I too plainly see.
WAM Egypt- WAMGROUP
Upon them every one Your bounties you will heap, And those, with whom you've done. You know I'm forced to keep. So drink with them I will, You shall not balk my vein. Pray be my mistress still, Your friends shall still be mine. Lisette, dont I'empire S'etend jusqu' h. Lisette, ma Lisette, Tu m'as trompe toujours; Mais vive la grisette!
Je veux, Lisette, Boire h nos amours. Lindor, par son audace, Met ta ruse en defaut; II te parle h. Du tendre espoir qu'il fonde II m'instruisit d'abord. Avec I'heureux Clitandre Lorsque je te surpris, Vous comptiez d'un air tendre Les baisers qu'il t'a pris. Mondor, qui toujours donne Et rubans et bijoux, Devant moi te chiffonne Sans te mettre en courroux. J'ai vu sa main bardie S'egarer sur ton sein; Verse jusqu' h. Certain soir je pdnbtre Dans ta chambre, et sans bruit, Je vois par la fenetre Un voleur qui s'enfuit. Je I'avais, des la veille, Fait fuir de ton boudoir.
Tous, comble's de tes graces, Mes amis sont les tiens; Et ceux dont tu te lasses, C'est moi qui les souticns. Qu'avec ceux-la, traitresse, La vin me soit permis : Sois toujours ma maitresse, Et gardons nos amis. Fabre d'Eglantine. Bom , guillotined Few would recognize the sanguinary revolutionist Fabre d'Eglantine in this simple pastoral. He was also celebrated as a dramatist, and his comedy " Le Philinte de Moliere" is generally contained in collections of classical French plays.
THE Storm is gathering o'er thee, The rain is falling fast, Quick, drive thy flock before thee, And to my cottage haste; I hear the rain-drops patter, As on the leaves they light; Now comes the thunder's clatter — Now come the flashes bright. Another step, another, — There stands my cottage home, My sister and my mother To welcome us have come. My love, the fire will cheer thee. Thy clothes will soon be dry.
My sister will sit near thee, And here thy sheep shall lie. Sure never flock was fatter! We'll give tliem all our care. And choicest straw we'll scatter For this thy lambkin fair. My mother, only see. Thy place for supper take, love. Sit close beside me — so, For thee the log shall make, love, A bright and cheerful glow. In vain the milk invites thee. No appetite hast thou. The thunder still affrights thee, Or thou art weary now.
Is't so? Where thou till dawn shalt rest ; But let one loving kiss, dear, Upon thy lips be pressed. And do not let thy cheek, love, Be thus with blushes dyed; At noon thy sire I'll seek, love, And claim thee for my bride. I LOVE thee, dear! I love thee, dear! More than I e'er can tell thee, sweet! Although each time I draw my breath.
Those ardent words my lips repeat : Absent or present, far or near, " I love thee! Alone with thee, or others nigh. To trace " I love " a hundred times, Can now alone my pen engage. Of thee alone my song now rhymes : Reading — thou smilest from the page! If Beauty greets my wandering glance, I strive thy look in hers to trace; In portraits or in pictures rare, I only seek to find thy face. Thy sweet idea I caress — It blends with my last thought in sleep. When I awake I see thy face, Before the day-beams win my sight. And my heart faster flies to thee, Than to mine eyes the morning light.
Absent, my spirit quits thee not; Thy words unheard my soul divines; I count thy cares, thy gentle steps — I guess the thought thy heart enshrines. Have I returned to thee once more? Heavenly delirious joy is mine! I breathe but love — and well thou knowest, Dearest, that breath is only thine!
Thy heart 's mine all! In thee — by thee — for thee alone I breathe, and only seek to live! What more can mortal language say? Tracer j'c faime en cent fagons Est le seul travail de ma plume; Je te chante dans mes chansons, Je te lis dans chaque volume. Qu'une beaute m'offre ses traits, Je te cherche sur son visage; Dans les tableaux, dans les portraits Je veux demeler ton image.
En ville, aux champs, chez moi, dehors, Ta douce image est caresse'e ; Elle se fond, quand je m'endors, Avec ma derniere pensee; Quand je m'eveille je te vois Avant d'avoir vu la lumiere, Et mon coeur est plus vite a toi Que n'est le jour a ma paupiere. Absent je ne te quitte pas ; Tous tes discours je les devine. Je compte tes soins et tes pas; Ce que tu sens, je I'imagine.
Pres de toi suis-je de retour! Je suis aux cieux, c'est un de'lire; Je ne respire que I'amour, Et c'est ton souffle que j'aspire. Ton coeur m'est tout, mon bien, ma loi; Te plaire est toutc mon envie; Enfin, en toi, par toi, pour toi, Je respire et tiens h. Ma bien-aimee, 6 mon tresor! Qu'ajouterais-je k ce langage? Eh bien! La Rose. Gektil Bernard. Pierre Joseph Bernard, complimented by Voltaire with the appellation of " Genlil," which has become a part of his name, gained an immense reputation by his light poetry in the reign of Louis XV. His long poem " L' Art d' Aimer," which created a great sensation when read in the fashionable circles of the day, sank in public opinion as soon as it was printed.
Nay, alas! From thy stalk at once come down. Let her in thy hues be dressed; Of all flowers thou art the crown, Also be the happiest. On young Chloe's breast expiring. Let it be thy throne and tomb, I no other lot desiring Shall be jealous of thy doom. Teach her to give up her arms To the god whose power is known; Singing thy expiring charms.
Let her learn to use her own. Tendre fruit des fleurs de I'A. Palmire est une fleur nouvelle Qui doit subir la meme loi; Rose, tu dois briller comme elle, Elle doit passer comme toi. Descends de la tige epineuse, Viens la parer de tes couleurs; Tu dois etre la plus heureuse, Comme la plus belle des fleurs. Va, meurs sur le sein de Palmire, Qu'il soit ton trone et ton tombeau, Jaloux de ton sort, je n'aspire Qu' au bonheur d'un trepas si beau. L Amour. The Chevalier de Boufflkrs. Bora , died In the latter capacity he was one of the members of the Diners dii Caveaic.
He also did good service of a more serious kind, as Governor of Senegal. Young Love is a deceitful child, My mother says to me. Although his aspect is so mild, A very snake is he. But I am curious, after all, To know how one who is so small So terrible can be. With pretty Cliloe, yesterday, A swain I chanced to see: Such soft sweet words I heard him say, Sincere he sure must be. A httle god I heard him name, And ah! Now, just to find out what is meant, And solve the mystery, Young Cohn, — 'tis my firm intent, — Shall seek for Love with me.
Though Love be ne'er so fierce and mid, We two for such a tiny child A match will surely be. Fondly watched them as they played. Suddenly they were united! To one spot at once they flew, Chloe's lovely face invited All the little sportive crew. Some upon her forehead settled, Others in her eyes would rest, Others, who were higher mettled, In her tresses found a nest. Thus a picture v. Then all thoughts of flight Avere over, For he loved his place so well That he ceased to be a rover, And remained a sentinel.
L Amour d'' Annette pour Lubin. Charles Sjirton Favart was one of the earliest poets of French comic opera, who still lives in the name given to the edifice of the Opera Comique at Paris. Aniiette et Lubin, an opera from which the above song is taken, was one of the most popular of his works. Unknown its name has been Until this fatal day; — When we to love begin, To love are we a prey? Thine accents seem to touch My soul, as with a charm.
Thy words I love so much, They seem my heart to warm. Apart from thee I feel A blank through every day. Will nought this anguish heal — Nought drive this love away? The flowers thy dear hand gives With fond delight I wear; At eve thou pluck'st their leaves To make me perfumes rare.
Annette thou seek'st to please, Thy care she would repay; But ah!
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Tlic air to the above words, which a few years ago was almost as popular in England as in France, was composed by the author, Frederic Berat. Among the glaciers I have been, Where from the vale the chalet peers, The sky of Italy I've seen, And Venice mth her gondoliers; And, leaving all, I've said, "To me There is a land of greater Avorth ; Nought can excel my Normandy, For that's the land that gave me birth.
When dull and cold my muse shall be. And end her songs of love and mirth. Oh, then I'll seek my Normandy, For that's the land that gave me birth. QuAND tout renait h. I'esperance, Et que I'hiver fuit loin de nous. Sous le beau ciel de notre France, Quand le soleil revient plus doux. Quand le nature est reverdie, Quand I'hirondelle est de retour, J'aime k revoir ma Normandie, C'est le pays qui m'a donne le jour. J'ai vu le ciel de I'ltalie, Et Venise et ses gondoliers.
En saluant chaque patrie, Je me disais : Aucun sejour N'est plus beau que ma Normandie, C'est le pays qui m'a donne le jour. Lorsque ma muse refroidie Aura fini ses chants d'amour, J'irai revoir ma Normandie, C'est le pays qui m'a donne le jour. Le Portrait. Dear portrait of a form that I adore, Dear pledge, which love was happy to obtain, What I have lost, oh, bring to me again! In seeing thee I feel I live once more. Here is her look, her frank and winning air; With her loved features so adorned thou art, That I can gladly press thee to my heart. And think it is herself I'm pressing there.
But no; her living charms thou canst not show, Thou witness of my sorrows, mute and dead ; Recalling pleasures that, alas! Thou mak'st my tears, thou cruel portrait, flow. Nay, of my hasty language I repent. Pardon the ravings of my heart's distress; Dear portrait, though thou art not happiness, Its image to my soul thou canst present. Portrait charmant, portrait de mon amie, Gage d'amour, par I'amour obtenu. Lorsque ma main te presse sur mon coeur, Je crois encore la presser elle-meme.
Non, tu n'as pas pour moi les memes charmes, Muet temoin de mes tendres soupirs : En retragant nos fugitifs plaisirs, Cruel portrait, tu fais couler mes larmes. Ze Chateau d'Elvire. ENEATH Elvira's castle wall, A troubadour, whose tuneful strings Are moistened by the tears that fall, Thus of his anguish sadly sings : "When at the tourney thou didst reign, A queen all rivals far above, I felt indifference was vain, And then I first began to love.
Thou 'it murmur in thy sweetest tone, And echoes to soft answers move, — The troubadour beneath this stone Loved once, and only once could love. Mon Habit. This song belongs to the same period as Les Infidelitis de Lisette. Y poor dear coat, be faithful to the end : We both grow old ; ten years have gone, Through which my hand has brushed thee, ancient friend; Not more could Socrates have done. If weakened to a threadbare state, Thou still must suffer many a blow; E'en like thy master brave the storms of fate, My good old coat, we'll never part — oh, no! I still can well remember the first day I wore thee, — for my memory's strong; It was my birthday; and my comrades gay Chanted thy glories in a song.
Thy poverty might make me vain; The friends who loved me long ago, Though thou art poor, will drink to thee again; My good old coat, we'll never part — oh, no! This fine-drawn rent — its cause I ne'er forget, — It beams upon my memory still; I feigned one night to fly from my Lisette, And even now her grasp I feel. Ne'er drugged with musk and amber hast tliou been, Like coats by vapid coxcombs worn; Ne'er in an antechamber wert thou seen Insulted by the lordling's scorn. How wistfully all France has eyed The hand that ribbons can bestow!
The field-flower is thy button's only pride, — My good old coat, we'll never part — oh, no! We shall not have those foolish days again When our two destinies were one. Those days so fraught with, pleasure and with pain, Those days of mingled rain and sun. I somehow think, my ancient friend, Unto a coatless realm I go; Yet wait awhile, together we will end, — My good old coat, we'll never part — oh, no! Le Tombeau d'Emma.
Beranger has honoured his memory with a song, and the elegance of his classical compositions has obtained for him the name of the "French TibuUus.
My Emma's solitary tomb is here. I saw death fling its sombre, sudden shade Over the sunny morning of tliy days: Thine eyes umvilHng seemed to quench their rays, And slowly could I see their lustre fade. The youthful throng, — that vain and empty crowd, Who on her will Uke worshippers would hang, And hymn her beauty forth in praises loud, — Could see her die without a single pang. When their dear benefactress they had lost. Not e'en the poor, to whom she was so kind, Within their hearts a single sigh could find, With which to silence her complaining ghost.
Perfidious friendship, with its smiling face. Now laughs as loudly as it laughed before; The dying image it could soon efface. And for a passing hour its mourning wore. Upon this earth thy memory liveth not. Thy tender constancy no more they prize. But from thy tomb they coldly turn their eyes; Thy very name is by the world forgot. Love, love alone is faithful to its grief, Not even Time can teach it to forget; Within the shades of death it seeks relief. And finds incessant sighs to mourn thee yet I come, ere morning breaks, my tears to shed.
My pain grows more intense in day's full light, I weep amid the silence of the night. And I am weeping still when night has fled. Awake, my verse, sole comfort of my woe, And with my tears of sorrow freely flow. Les Souvenirs. The name of Francois Auguste, Viscount de Chateaubriand, needs no comment. It is not on his songs that his celebrity depends, but Les Souvenirs deserves a place in every collection of French poetry. My childhood's home — that pleasant spot By me can never be forgot! How happy, sister, then appeared Our country's lot. Our mother's form remember'st thou?
While on her brow Our lips the white locks fondly pressed; Then were we blessed! And, sister, thou remember'st yet The castle, which the stream would wet; And that strange Moorish tower, so old, Thou 'It not forget; How from its bell the deep sound rolled, And day foretold. Remember'st thou the lake's calm blue?
The swallow brushed it as he flew — How with the reeds the breezes played; The evening hue With which the waters bright were made, In gold arrayed. Le Rhe de Marie. Bom And Paris you would see, While she weeps here! Perchance, you may, my poor Marie, Your mother and your God forget. Upon her mother's brow She prints a kiss. But even while she sleeps, The watchful mother still she hears, Who by her bedside weeps. She leaves her native home With weeping eyes, To Paris she has come, — - Oh, bright surprise!
There all appears to trace In lines of gold her future lot, And dazzling dreams efface The image of her humble cot. Heaven, when two years have past, Bids her return, To her Savoy at last She comes — to mourn. Le Bouton de Rose. Princesse dk Salm. Bud of the rose! Happier than I thou mlt be! On the bosom of Rose Thou goest to die, happy flower! If I were a bud of the rose. With joy I should die in an hour On the bosom of Rose. The bosom of Rose, Thy rival, sweet rosebud, may prove; Fret not, pretty bud of the rose, Nought equals in beauty or love The bosom of Rose.
Bud of the rose. My Rose coming I see! I implore you, make me A bud of the rose! BouTON de rose! Au sein de Rose, Heureux bouton tu vas mourir! Moi, si j'etais bouton de rose, Je ne mourrais que de plaisir — Au sein de Rose. Au sein de Rose, Tu pourras trouver un rival; Ne joute pas, bouton de rose Car en beaute rien n'est egal, Au sein de Rose. Bouton de rose, Adieu! Rose vient, je la vois! S'il est une metempsychose, Grands dieux!
JO humble toit de mon Pere. Of palaces, temples, and trophies they boast. Which lovely Italia lifts up to the skies. The work of a fairy we deem them almost, Their magical grandeur so dazzles the eyes; But oh! They talk of the gardens of Araby Blest, O'er which the bright sun ever scatters his hues, Where earth in spring's garment for ever is dressed, And never its flowers and fruits can refuse; But oh!
Those countries which beauties so glorious adorn, — Those temples, — those flowers, — stir no envy in me. Though cold is the country in which I was bom. We love there as well, and there Hfe is more free. So hail to the North, — there is nought ranks above My father's poor cot, where I learned how to love. Petite Flew des Bo is. Emile Barateav. Emile Earateau is one of the most prolific of modern song-writers, and La fettle Fletirdci Bois is one of the most jxjpular of his productions. Through forest and through field I Ve sought thee many an hour, That I might have the pow'r This simple truth to tell : Indeed, I love thee well.
Thou little woodland flower. Thy simple loveliness No gaudy colour shows, But yet true pleasure glows From thy white spotless dress. My lip I would incline Unto thy cup divine. Knowing that nought is there To cause a single tear. I love the birds that sing, The shade the branches fling, The golden-winged fly, As pleased he springs on high. Each fair one seems to bear A name of pow'r divine. And such a charm is thine, Thou mak'st me hold thee dear; For thee I fondlv seek.
To thee my griefs I speak, And say, "Oh, come to me, And let me dote on thee. This song is evidently a sequel to Le Chateau d'Ehire see p. Night o'er the face of eartli was spread, But still Elvira sleepless lay; While in soft whispers near her bed, A voice complaining seemed to say: " It was thy coldness sealed my doom. But death from thee was surely sweet; Three days will pass, and in his tomb Thy slighted Alfred thou wit meet. She shrank from the impending doom, And trembling she would oft repeat, — "Three days wall pass, and in his tomb The slighted Alfred I shall meet.
To hapless Alfred's tomb she went, The clock struck twelve, — her tott'ring feet Failed, — she, the fair indifferent, Has gone at last her love to meet. A la grace de Dieii. The songs bj' M. Gustave Lemoine have alxjut them a simple pathos which gives them a high rank among modem lyrical compositions. The sentiment they express is generally the regret felt by a rural inhabitant of the town for the pleasures of his native home. The resetted countiyis usually Bretagne ; though in this poem, which is dated , the subject is that emigration from Savoy which is often a pathetic theme with French writers.
Parisians, you our children keep Bestowed on you by Heaven's hand, We poor Savoyard mothers weep, But send them from their native land. Saying, Adieu, adieu. May God above watch over you! Should I ne'er see your face again! My child. Adieu, adieu, May God above watch over you! Away the lowly exile went To toil beneath another sky. The mother, on her form intent, Followed the wand'rer with her eye; And when at last the form was gone, Her grief through all its fetters broke, She wept aloud, — the lonely one, — While still her child departing spoke : My mother dear, Adieu, May God above watch over you!
Jean Pierre Claris Florian. In vain I mourn: these prison walls Alone my mournful sighs repeat; Memory, that former bliss recalls, Moje bitter makes the woe I meet. Beyond my prison bars I see The sweet birds through the free air sweep. Singing their loves at liberty, Whilst I in hated fetters weep. And to the future trust my fame.
Perfidious — cruel — barb'rous foe! Hatred shall dog thy coming years. While o'er the tomb where I lie low.