And ’twas last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.
Mr. Lang is of the opinion that no Gallic verse has equalled in audacity this confession of limitations, this “Apologia pro Vita Sua;” and perhaps its light-heartedness is well out of general reach. But the French lover, like the English, was made of threats and promises alike fruitless of fulfilment, and Phillis had many a fair foreign sister, no whit more worthy of regard. Only, amid the laughter and raillery of a Latin people, there rings ever an undertone of regret,—not passionate and heart-breaking, as in Drayton’s bitter cry,—
Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part,
but vague and subtle, linking itself tenderly to some long-ignored and half-forgotten sentiment, buried deep in the reader’s heart.
Mais où sont les neiges d’antan?
A little sob breaks the smooth sweetness of Belleau’s verse, and Ronsard’s beautiful lines to his careless young mistress are heavy with the burden of sighs:—
Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle,
Assise auprès du feu, devisant et filant,
Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous esmerveillant: