FORTUNE
Rap! rap!--Is that my lass--
Rap! rap!--is rapping there?
It is Fortune. Let her pass!
I'll not open the door to her.
Rap! rap!--
All of my friends are making gay
My little room, with lips wine-wet:
We only wait for you, Lisette!
Fortune! you may go your way.
Rap! rap!--
If we might credit half her boast,
What wonders gold has in its gift!
Well, we have twenty bottles left
And still some credit with our host.
Rap! rap!--
Her pearls, and rubies too, she quotes,
And mantles more than sumptuous:
Lord! but the purple's naught to us,--
We're just now taking off our coats.
Rap! rap!--
She treats us as the rawest youths,
With talk of genius and of fame:
Thank calumny, alas, for shame!
Our faith is spoiled in laurel growths.
Rap! rap!--
Far from our pleasures, we care not
Her highest heavens to attain;
She fills her big balloons in vain
Till we have swamped our little boat.
Rap! rap!--
Yet all our neighbors crowd to be
Within her ring of promises,
Ah! surely, friends! our mistresses
Will cheat us more agreeably.
Rap! rap!--
THE PEOPLE'S REMINISCENCES
(LES SOUVENIRS DU PEUPLE)
Ay, many a day the straw-thatched cot
Shall echo with his glory!
The humblest shed, these fifty years,
Shall know no other story.
There shall the idle villagers
To some old dame resort,
And beg her with those good old tales
To make their evenings short.
"What though they say he did us harm?
Our love this cannot dim;
Come, granny, talk of him to us;
Come, granny, talk of him."
"Well, children--with a train of kings,
Once he passed by this spot;
'Twas long ago; I had but just
Begun to boil the pot.
On foot he climbed the hill, whereon
I watched him on his way:
He wore a small three-cornered hat;
His overcoat was gray.
I was half frightened till he said
'Good day, my dear!' to me."
"O granny, granny, did he speak?
What, granny! you and he?"
"Next year, as I, poor soul, by chance
Through Paris strolled one day,
I saw him taking, with his court,
To Notre Dame his way.
The crowd were charmed with such a show;
Their hearts were filled with pride:
'What splendid weather for the fête!
Heaven favors him!' they cried.
Softly he smiled, for God had given
To his fond arms a boy."
"Oh, how much joy you must have felt!
O granny, how much joy!"
"But when at length our poor Champagne
By foes was overrun,
He seemed alone to hold his ground;
Nor dangers would he shun.
One night--as might be now--I heard
A knock--the door unbarred--
And saw--good God! 'twas he, himself,
With but a scanty guard.
'Oh, what a war is this!' he cried,
Taking this very chair."
"What! granny, granny, there he sat?
What! granny, he sat there?"
"'I'm hungry,' said he: quick I served
Thin wine and hard brown bread;
He dried his clothes, and by the fire
In sleep dropped down his head.
Waking, he saw my tears--'Cheer up,
Good dame!' says he, 'I go
'Neath Paris' walls to strike for France
One last avenging blow.'
He went; but on the cup he used
Such value did I set--
It has been treasured."--"What! till now?
You have it, granny, yet?"
"Here 'tis: but 'twas the hero's fate
To ruin to be led;
He whom a Pope had crowned, alas!
In a lone isle lies dead.
'Twas long denied: 'No, no,' said they,
'Soon shall he reappear!
O'er ocean comes he, and the foe
Shall find his master here.'
Ah, what a bitter pang I felt,
When forced to own 'twas true!"
"Poor granny! Heaven for this will look--
Will kindly look on you."
Translation of William Young.
THE OLD TRAMP
(LE VIEUX VAGABOND)
Here in this gutter let me die:
Weary and sick and old, I've done.
"He's drunk," will say the passers-by:
All right, I want no pity--none.
I see the heads that turn away,
While others glance and toss me sous:
"Off to your junket! go!" I say:
Old tramp,--to die I need no help from you.
Yes, of old age I'm dying now:
Of hunger people never die.
I hoped some almshouse might allow
A shelter when my end was nigh;
But all retreats are overflowed,
Such crowds are suffering and forlorn.
My nurse, alas! has been the road:
Old tramp,--here let me die where I was born.
When young, it used to be my prayer
To craftsmen, "Let me learn your trade."
"Clear out--we've got no work to spare;
Go beg," was all reply they made.
You rich, who bade me work, I've fed
With relish on the bones you threw;
Made of your straw an easy bed:
Old tramp,--I have no curse to vent on you.
Poor wretch, I had the choice to steal;
But no, I'd rather beg my bread.
At most I thieved a wayside meal
Of apples ripening overhead.
Yet twenty times have I been thrown
In prison--'twas the King's decree;
Robbed of the only thing I own:
Old tramp,--at least the sun belongs to me.
The poor man--is a country his?
What are to me your corn and wine,
Your glory and your industries,
Your orators? They are not mine.
And when a foreign foe waxed fat
Within your undefended walls,
I shed my tears, poor fool, at that:
Old tramp,--his hand was open to my calls.
Why, like the hateful bug you kill,
Did you not crush me when you could?
Or better, teach me ways and skill
To labor for the common good?
The ugly grub an ant may end,
If sheltered from the cold and fed.
You might have had me for a friend:
Old tramp,--I die your enemy instead.
Translated for the 'World's Best Literature.'
FIFTY YEARS
(ClNQUANTE ANS)
Wherefore these flowers? floral applause?
Ah, no, these blossoms came to say
That I am growing old, because
I number fifty years to-day.
O rapid, ever-fleeting day!
O moments lost, I know not how!
O wrinkled cheek and hair grown gray!
Alas, for I am fifty now!
Sad age, when we pursue no more--
Fruit dies upon the withering tree:
Hark! some one rapped upon my door.
Nay, open not. 'Tis not for me--
Or else the doctor calls. Not yet
Must I expect his studious bow.
Once I'd have called, "Come in, Lizzette"--
Alas, for I am fifty now!
In age what aches and pains abound.
The torturing gout racks us awhile;
Blindness, a prison dark, profound;
Or deafness that provokes a smile.
Then Reason's lamp grows faint and dim
With flickering ray. Children, allow
Old Age the honor due to him--
Alas, for I am fifty now!
Ah, heaven! the voice of Death I know,
Who rubs his hands in joyous mood;
The sexton knocks and I must go--
Farewell, my friends the human brood!
Below are famine, plague, and strife;
Above, new heavens my soul endow:
Since God remains, begin, new life!
Alas, for I am fifty now!
But no, 'tis you, sweetheart, whose youth,
Tempting my soul with dainty ways,
Shall hide from it the sombre truth,
This incubus of evil days.
Springtime is yours, and flowers; come then,
Scatter your roses on my brow,
And let me dream of youth again--
Alas, for I am fifty now!
Translation of Walter Learned.
THE GARRET
With pensive eyes the little room I view,
Where in my youth I weathered it so long,
With a wild mistress, a stanch friend or two,
And a light heart still breaking into song;
Making a mock of life, and all its cares,
Rich in the glory of my rising sun:
Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one.
Yes; 'tis a garret--let him know't who will---
There was my bed--full hard it was and small;
My table there--and I decipher still
Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall.
Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away,
Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun:
For you I pawned my watch how many a day,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one!
And see my little Jessy, first of all;
She comes with pouting lips and sparkling eyes:
Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawl
Across the narrow casement, curtain-wise:
Now by the bed her petticoat glides down,
And when did women look the worse in none?
I have heard since who paid for many a gown,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one.
One jolly evening, when my friends and I
Made happy music with our songs and cheers,
A shout of triumph mounted up thus high,
And distant cannon opened on our ears;
We rise,--we join in the triumphant strain,--
Napoleon conquers--Austerlitz is won--
Tyrants shall never tread us down again,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one.
Let us begone--the place is sad and strange--
How far, far off, these happy times appear!
All that I have to live I'd gladly change
For one such month as I have wasted here--
To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power,
From founts of hope that never will outrun,
And drink all life's quintessence in an hour:
Give me the days when I was twenty-one.
Version of W.M. Thackeray.