66

RONSARD TO HIS MISTRESS.

Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir à la chandelle,
Assise auprès du feu devisant et filant,

Direz, chantant mes vers en vous esmerveillant :
Ronsard me célébroit du temps que j'étois belle."

OME winter night, shut snugly in
winter shut

Beside the faggot in the hall,

I think I see you sit and spin,

Surrounded by your maidens all.

Old tales are told, old songs are sung,
Old days come back to memory;
You say, "When I was fair and young,
A poet sang of me!"

There's not a maiden in your hall,
Though tired and sleepy ever so,
But wakes, as you my name recall,
And longs the history to know.
And, as the piteous tale is said,
Of lady cold and lover true,
Each, musing, carries it to bed,
And sighs and envies you!

"Our lady's old and feeble now,"

They'll say; "she once was fresh and fair,

And yet she spurn'd her lover's vow,
And heartless left him to despair:

The lover lies in silent earth,

No kindly mate the lady cheers: She sits beside a lonely hearth, With threescore and ten years!"

Ah! dreary thoughts and dreams are those.
But wherefore yield me to despair,
While yet the poet's bosom glows,

While yet the dame is peerless fair?
Sweet lady mine! while yet 'tis time
Requite my passion and my truth,
And gather in their blushing prime
The roses of your youth!

The Minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,

And noise and humming:
They've hush'd the Minster bell:

The organ 'gins to swell:

She's coming, she's coming!

My lady comes at last,

Timid, and stepping fast,

And hastening hither,

With modest eyes downcast:

She comes-she's here-she's past — May Heaven go with her!

Kneel, undisturbed, fair Saint!

Pour out your praise or plaint

Meekly and duly;

I will not enter there,

To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,

Lingering a minute

Like outcast spirits who wait
And see through heaven's gate

Angels within it.

O, pretty page, with the dimpled chin,

Ho,

Ho, peg has known the barber's shear,

That never

All your wish is woman to win,
This is the way that boys begin,-
Wait till you come to Forty Year.

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,
Billing and cooing is all your cheer;
Sighing and singing of midnight strains,
Under Bonnybell's window panes,-

Wait till you come to Forty Year.