139

JOHN OF TOURS.

(Old French.)

JOHN of Tours is back with peace,
But he comes home ill at ease.

'Good-morrow, mother.' 'Good-morrow, son; Your wife has borne you a little one.'

'Go now, mother, go before,

Make me a bed upon the floor;
'Very low your foot must fall
That my wife hear not at all.'

As it neared the midnight toll,
John of Tours gave up his soul.

'Tell me now, my mother my dear,
What's the crying that I hear?'
'Daughter, it's the children wake
Crying with their teeth that ache.'

'Tell me though, my mother my dear,
What's the knocking that I hear?'
'Daughter, it's the carpenter
Mending planks upon the stair.'
'Tell me too, my mother my dear,
What's the singing that I hear?'
'Daughter, it's the priests in rows
Going round about our house.'

'Tell me then, my mother my dear,
What's the dress that I should wear?'

Daughter, any reds or blues,

But the black is most in use.'

'Nay, but say, my mother my dear, Why do you fall weeping here?'

'Oh! the truth must be said,—

It's that John of Tours is dead.'

'Mother, let the sexton know That the grave must be for two;

'Aye, and still have room to spare, For you must shut the baby there.'

MY FATHER'S CLOSE.

(Old French.)

INSIDE my father's close,

(Fly away O my heart away!) Sweet apple-blossom blows So sweet.

Three kings' daughters fair,
(Fly away O my heart away!)
They lie below it there
So sweet.

'Ah !' says the eldest one,

(Fly away O my heart away!)

I think the day's begun
So sweet.

'Ah!' says the second one,

(Fly away O my heart away!) 'Far off I hear the drum

So sweet.'

Ah!' says the youngest one,

(Fly away O my heart away!)

'It's my true love, my own,
So sweet.

'Oh! if he fight and win,'

(Fly away O my heart away!)

'I keep my love for him,
So sweet :

Oh! let him lose or win,

He hath it still complete.

BEAUTY.

(A combination from Sappho.)

I.

Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost bough,

A-top on the topmost twig,-which the pluckers forgot, somehow,

Forgot it not, nay, but got it not, for none could get it till now.

II.

Like the wild hyacinth flower which on the hills is found, Which the passing feet of the shepherds for ever tear and wound,

Until the purple blossom is trodden into the ground.

YOUTH AND LORDSHIP.*

(Italian Street-Song.)

My young lord's the lover

Of earth and sky above,
Of youth's sway and youth's play,
Of songs and flowers and love.

* GIOVENTU E SIGNORIA.

Yet for love's desire

Green youth lacks the daring; Though one dream of fire, All his hours ensnaring, Burns the boy past bearing,The dream that girls inspire.

My young lord's the lover

Of every burning thought That Love's will, that Love's skill Within his breast has wrought.

Lovely girl, look on him

Soft as music's measure; Yield him, when you've won him, Joys and toys at pleasure; But to win your treasure,

Softly look upon him.

My young lord's the lover
Of every tender grace
That woman, to woo man,
Can wear in form or face.

Take him to your bosom
Now, girl, or never;
Let not your new blossom
Of sweet kisses sever;
Only guard for ever
Your boast within your bosom.

My young lord's the lover
Of every secret thing,
Love-hidden, love-bidden
This day to banqueting.

Lovely girl, with vaunting
Never tempt to-morrow :
From all shapes enchanting
Any joy can borrow,
Still the spectre Sorrow
Rises up for haunting.

THE LEAF-FRANCESCA DA RIMINI.

And now my lord's the lover

Of ah! so many a sweet,—

Of roses, of spouses,

As many as love may greet.

THE LEAF.

(Leopardi.)

'TORN from your parent bough,

Poor leaf all withered now,

Where go you?'

'I cannot tell.

Storm-stricken is the oak-tree

Where I grew, whence I fell.
Changeful continually,

The zephyr and hurricane
Since that day bid me flee
From deepest woods to the lea.

From highest hills to the plain.
Where the wind carries me

I go without fear or grief:
I go whither each one goes,-
Thither the leaf of the rose

And thither the laurel-leaf.'

143

FRANCESCA DA RIMINI.

(Dante.)

*

WHEN I made answer, I began: 'Alas!

How many sweet thoughts and how much desire Led these two onward to the dolorous pass!' Then turned to them, as who would fain inquire, And said: Francesca, these thine agonies

Wring tears for pity and grief that they inspire :~~