Hard coin a workman steals us The features of a king. The very gods are waning: Past brazen images. Be thy work carved on, graved in, Be saved in Blocks that outrival Time. That is an instance where I have felt myself bound to be not only rhythmically but syllabically accurate throughout. If one's ears are not charmed as with Gautier's own music, one sees at least the precise shape and size of the poem, and apprehends its laboured and exquisite finish,' which no other form would quite avail to show. I have chosen the following translation of Madame de Castellana's Vous et Moi, as a short and facile sample of the typical modern song, to contrast with Gautier's elaboration, and introduce some echo of a special feminine charm : Your eyes, serene and pure, have deigned to look upon me, You are the rising sun that fair day follows after, And I the deep of night, the gloomy clouds and grey: You steep yourself in rays and breathe the breath of roses, We have reached de Musset at last; for though he should perhaps have preceded Victor Hugo as the past precedes the present, he seems always the youngest of all poets by reason of the pervading air of youth that hangs about his verses, sad or gay. He was spoken of more fitly and fairly as a child (than as a dwarf)-Byron.' I had lief say much about his work, had I space left to speak of him, but he speaks best for himself, so I would refer my readers to the book of Mr. James's that I have already mentioned (in an allusion to Gautier) for an appreciative and sufficient English essay upon his qualities as a poet. The following impromptu,' made for answer to the question of Louise Bertin, What is poetry?' may serve well enough for starting-point. Though it has perhaps least of de Musset's felicity of musical expression, its intention is expressive of his own. To scout mere memories, and bid the thought be holden To love the true, the fair, and seek for their fruition, Herein is manifest the poet's living fire, This is the good his goal, his life and his desire. There could scarcely be better witness of the truth of this-taking the word 'poetry,' of course, in a limited lyrical sense than any one of his own songs, this for instance :— Warrior fair, to the battle-field going, What are you doing So far from me? Do you not see that the dark night is lonely, Is grief to dree? You that believe that a love once forsaken Her flight has taken From memories, Heyday! heyday! you that seek where fame's crown is, Like smoke that flies. Warrior fair, to the battle-field going, What are you doing Far from my feet? I must go weep, whom you told when beguiling, Was all too sweet. Or this, which might be Moore : When one has lost, by sad annoyance, One's hope of joyaunce And one's delight, The remedy for melancholy Is music holy And beauty bright! More wins and more compels our duty A face of beauty Than strong man armed, And best to song our griefs we render, Erewhile that charmed! Or this, which must be Heine : See, my neighbour's window curtain And she will, I'm almost certain, Now the casement open blowing— But, alas! 'tis idle dreaming; For my neighbour loves a lout, And it is the wind that's seeming To push the curtain out. After three songs I cannot give less than two sonnets, in contrasted rhythmical form. I have spoken of both already. The first is the au lecteur of the Premières Poésies: This book has all my youth inside it; I made it ere I gave a thought. That's clear enough, even I descried it, But while man changes far and wide, it Whoe'er thou art that readest me, Read all thou canst read patiently, And till thou hast read me spare thy curses. My first songs are a child's, in sooth, The next but singing of a youth, The last are scarcely fullgrown verses. And this next, an early poem too, I have preferred to any I have translated from his later volume as more distinctive of de Musset, here rather as a Parisian than a poet : How well I love this first keen shivery winter feeling! I loved this ashen time, these passers by the river, Oh! in thy languorous glance I felt to swoon already ; I am very sorry to be able to offer no better substitute for Madame' than my lady.' Bad's the best,' and 'my lady,' if a little vulgar, is at least nearer the mark than my queen.' Apropos of this 'Madame,' one may plead, for a certain sameness of rhyme that must come with English dissyllables, no less an excuse than the sameness of rhyme in French. One is pretty certain to find 'âme' where one sees a line that ends Madame,' and if it is not 'âme' it is flamme.' I must add one rondeau of de Musset's, though of the Rondeauform itself I need say nothing after Mr. Gosse: this example is fuller of assonance than a rondeau is bound to be, for the refrain is related to the lines (as in another rondeau in the same volume) instead of being wholly independent of them. I have tried to reproduce this assonance in my English version. There never was, my heart, a sweeter aching Than thine, when Manon sleeps in mine embrace! In her fair breast I hear her heart still waking, So sleeps the wild rose in the summer, as But the day dawns, and rosy morn, outshaking Ah! love with no to-morrow and no forsaking It is because he is the poet of youth, I suppose, that one finds oneself smiling over de Musset's sorrows, and growing grave over his laughter: for after it the veil must be lifted up which he never lived to lift, the illusions dispelled which, for his muse at least, were fresh until the end. I had meant to give the whole of the first scene from his charming comedy A quoi rêvent les jeunes filles? rendered in this tentative fashion, but want of space forbids it, and I am fain to detach some mere lines of the delightful idyll, just for the sake of hazarding the interpolated song, surely the loveliest of all de Musset's singing: NINON. [Alone, drawing the bolt] With spurs of silver and a cloak of velvet stuff! A chain! and then a kiss! A strange adventure rather. [She lets down her hair. This headdress suits me ill-my hair's not long enough. Of that young man I'm thinking, The stranger who comes here to-morrow night to dine, What gown shall I put on? [She goes to bed] I think a summer dress. No: winter, for that gives an air that's more befitting— Heav'ns! for an autumn night this heat is most oppressing. "Tis Flora coming back; no-no one, that's a blessing. [She drowses. Through the window a guitar is heard and a voice sings. THE VOICE. Ninon, Ninon, why pass thy life in sorrow? Fast flies the hour, and day treads hard on day. A rose to-night, and fallen to-morrow, How canst thou live that hast no lover? say! NINON. [Awaking] Is this a dream? methought, outside one sang his lay. THE VOICE (without). Consider thee, thou maiden youthful, Thine heart beats; thy bright eyes are truthful; To-day thy springtide is, Ninon, to-morrow frost. What! thou that hast no star, must thou at sea be tossed? I, for a little love, would lay my lifetime down; Yea, lay down life for nought, were life without love's crown. NINON. NO: I am not deceived-full strangely sounds the singing! And how to account for this ?-the singer knows my name. Perhaps she too is called 'Ninon' that is his flame. THE VOICE. What boots it that to-day should end, a new day bringingWhen all the heart is ringing With life-tide mutual proved? Blossom and blow, young flowers! If death should spoil your gleaming, And well you shall have lived, if you have lived and loved. I have scarcely given as yet a fair example of the poet's satire, where it rings real, for, of course, in the mere songs it is playful enough. In the following verses On a Dead Woman we have it perhaps at its strongest : Yes she was fair, if Night is so- Can be called fair the while she sleepeth; Yes: she was good, if good be wrought |