Upon these shores, where all invites,
We live our languid life apart;
This air is that of life’s delights,
The festival of sense and heart;

This limpid space of time prolong,
Forget to-morrow in to-day,
And leave unto the passing throng
The Sea, the Town, and the Highway.

TO MY BROOKLET

BY JEAN FRANCOIS DUCIS

Thou brooklet, all unknown to song,
Hid in the covert of the wood! 
Ah, yes, like thee I fear the throng,
Like thee I love the solitude.

O brooklet, let my sorrows past
Lie all forgotten in their graves,
Till in my thoughts remain at last
Only thy peace, thy flowers, thy waves.

The lily by thy margin waits;—­
The nightingale, the marguerite;
In shadow here he meditates
His nest, his love, his music sweet.

Near thee the self-collected soul
Knows naught of error or of crime;
Thy waters, murmuring as they roll,
Transform his musings into rhyme.

Ah, when, on bright autumnal eves,
Pursuing still thy course, shall I
Lisp the soft shudder of the leaves,
And hear the lapwing’s plaintive cry?

BARREGES

BY LEFRANC DE POMPIGNAN

I leave you, ye cold mountain chains,
Dwelling of warriors stark and frore! 
You, may these eyes behold no more,
Rave on the horizon of our plains.

Vanish, ye frightful, gloomy views! 
Ye rocks that mount up to the clouds! 
Of skies, enwrapped in misty shrouds,
Impracticable avenues!

Ye torrents, that with might and main
Break pathways through the rocky walls,
With your terrific waterfalls
Fatigue no more my weary brain!

Arise, ye landscapes full of charms,
Arise, ye pictures of delight! 
Ye brooks, that water in your flight
The flowers and harvests of our farms!

You I perceive, ye meadows green,
Where the Garonne the lowland fills,
Not far from that long chain of hills,
With intermingled vales between.

You wreath of smoke, that mounts so high,
Methinks from my own hearth must come;
With speed, to that beloved home,
Fly, ye too lazy coursers, fly!

And bear me thither, where the soul
In quiet may itself possess,
Where all things soothe the mind’s distress,
Where all things teach me and console.

WILL EVER THE DEAR DAYS COME BACK AGAIN?

Will ever the dear days come back again,
  Those days of June, when lilacs were in bloom,
  And bluebirds sang their sonnets in the gloom
  Of leaves that roofed them in from sun or rain? 
I know not; but a presence will remain
  Forever and forever in this room,
  Formless, diffused in air, like a perfume,—­
  A phantom of the heart, and not the brain. 
Delicious days! when every spoken word
  Was like a foot-fall nearer and more near,
  And a mysterious knocking at the gate
Of the heart’s secret places, and we heard
  In the sweet tumult of delight and fear
  A voice that whispered, “Open, I cannot wait!”