Romance Faite À Ermenonville

sur la tombe de J.-J. Rousseau
Voici donc le séjour paisible,
Où des mortels
Le plus tendre et le plus sensible
A des autels !

by Fanny de Beauharnais.

No Romance Sold Unto


No Romance sold unto
Could so enthrall a Man
As the perusal of
His Individual One—
'Tis Fiction's—When 'tis small enough
To Credit—'Tisn't true!

by Emily Dickinson.

The Spring Romance

The river else doesn’t wholly reign,
But pale-blue ice is drowned now;
And clouds are not blue again,
But sun had drunk the snow out.

Through a half-opened door,
You fret a heart with rustle; though…
You are not else in love; but lor!
You can’t not fall in love tomorrow.

by Innokenty Fedorovich Annensky.

Romance [salig Og Fordybet Hviler]

Salig og fordybet hviler
Kjærlighed i Drømmens Skjød.
Ubemærket Tiden iler -
Salig og fordybet hviler
Kjærlighed i Drømmens Skjød.

Kjærlighed i Ord forflygter,
Taler i sin Taushed helst.
For sit eget Dyb den frygter -
Kjærlighed i Ord forflygter,
Taler i sin Taushed helst.

by Henrik Hertz.

Romance [en Edder-Fugl Var Haardt I Klemme]

En Edder-Fugl var haardt i Klemme,
Og skreg om Hielp til Himmelen.
En Fisker hørte Fuglens Stemme;
Og skyndte sig, og frelste den.
Ak favre Fugl, Nord-Havets Ære,
Hvor glad er jeg, som frelste dig!
Hvor hvide, skiønne, bløde Fiære!
De skal herefter varme mig.
Saa plukkede han gridsk den Arme;
Og halvdød klager den med Ret:
Ha grumme Haand, som toeg min Varme,
Hvi gavst du mig mit Aandedræt?

by Johannes Ewald.

The Autumnal Romance

I watch you as coldly as never,
But can’t keep this pine in my breast,
Today sun’s in smoke of havens,
And sadness makes heavy a breath.

I know, I breed just a fable –
At least, trust to fables, - but you?…
Like needless oblations, in alleys,
Leaves fall in the mournful hue.

We’re joined by the fate that was blinded:
Would God join us ‘there’ – behind sky?…
Don’t laugh, if in spring days, delighted,
You’ll step on the lives that here die.

by Innokenty Fedorovich Annensky.

Romance [min Skat Var Blond. Hendes Øjnes Blik]

Min Skat var blond. Hendes Øjnes Blik
lo frem som Fugle i sommerlun Strand,
og vi var Venner — men naar jeg gik,
hun spotted mig: „Daarlige Mand!"

Saa kom vi af Takt i vor Kærligheds Vals.
Jeg knælede: „Straf mig, ifald du kan!"
Da tog hun mig grædende om min Hals
og kyssed mig: „Daarlige Mand!"

Min unge Skat jeg i Harm forlod
og flakkede fremmed og ene om Land.
Jeg ejed en Skat, som var ung og god.
Hun elsker sin daarlige Mand.

by Sophus Niels Christen Claussen.

Romance [jeg Mærker Det Ved Høilys Dag]

Jeg mærker det ved høilys Dag,
Og mangen eensom Nat,
Min Ungdoms Haab, de gyldne Haab,
De har mig snart forladt,
Men dog, saa tidt jeg troer beklemt,
Der svandt det sidste hen,
Da stiger atter et forglemt
Uventet op igjen.

Og daglig mærker jeg, hvor haardt
Mit Hjerte sig bedrog,
Og at der er varmt, og at det fuldt,
Men saa forgjæves slog.
Men — daarer mig et yndigt Smiil
Bag Rødmens fine Slør,
Saa sværmer jeg i gammel Stiil,
Og holder Stand som før.

by Henrik Hertz.

Quand vous me montrez une rose
Qui s'épanouit sous l'azur,
Pourquoi suis-je alors plus morose?
Quand vous me montrez une rose,
C'est que je pense à son front pur.

Quand vous me montrez une étoile,
Pourquoi les pleurs, comme un brouillard,
Sur mes yeux jettent-ils leur voile?
Quand vous me montrez une étoile,
C'est que je pense à son regard.

Quand vous me montrez l'hirondelle
Qui part jusqu'au prochain avril,
Pourquoi mon âme se meurt-elle
Quand vous me montrez l'hirondelle,
C'est que je pense à mon exil.

by François Coppée.

Proem. To Myth And Romance

There is no rhyme that is half so sweet
As the song of the wind in the rippling wheat;
There is no metre that's half so fine
As the lilt of the brook under rock and vine;
And the loveliest lyric I ever heard
Was the wildwood strain of a forest bird.
If the wind and the brook and the bird would teach
My heart their beautiful parts of speech.
And the natural art that they say these with,
My soul would sing of beauty and myth
In a rhyme and a metre that none before
Have sung in their love, or dreamed in their lore,
And the world would be richer one poet the more.

by Madison Julius Cawein.

Records Of Romantic Passion

THERE’S a rare Soul of Poesy which may be
But concentrated by the chastened dreams
Of constant hearts. Where’er the ministry
Of beautiful Nature hath enhanced the themes
Of some Petrarchian mind whose story gleams
Within the Past like a moon-silvered sea,
Or where grey Interest the spirit free
Of faithful Love hath caged in iron schemes,
Or round it stirr’d such dangers as o’erdrove
Long Ruin’s storm at last—there evermore
The very airs that whisper to the grove,
The echo’s mystery and the streamlet’s lore
Savour of Passion and transfusive pour
Abroad suggestions to heroic Love.

by Charles Harpur.

Hvor Bøgen helder sin friske Green
Mod Stranden, mens sagteligt Bølgerne trille,
En Havfrue staaer paa tangklædte Steen
Og synger i Aftenens Stille.
See, Havbørn smaa mere ude fra Land
Sig boltre i Tact efter Sangen;
Det klinger med Glasklokke-Klangen,
Hver Gang de kløve det klare Vand.

Den Havfrue kjæmmer sit lange Haar,
Og Perlerne rigt falde fra det som Draaber;
Den Sømand det seer, forude han staaer,
Hans unge Hjerte paa Livet haaber;
Den Havfrue er ham ei Skum paa Vand,
Og Sangen naaer Hjertet og Tanken.
Forstaaer Du hans Hjertebanken?
Hvert Bryst har sit hellige Alfeland!

by Hans Christian Andersen.

à Philippe Durty

Le bleu matin
Fait pâlir les étoiles.
Dans l’air lointain
La brume a mis ses voiles.
C’est l’heure où vont,
Au bruit clair des cascades,
Danser en rond,
Sur le pré, les Dryades.

Matin moqueur,
Au dehors tout est rose.
Mais dans mon cœur
Règne l’ennui morose.
Car j’ai parfois
A son bras, à cette heure,
Couru ce bois.
Seule à présent j’y pleure.

Le jour paraît,
La brume est déchirée,
Et la forêt
Se voit pourpre et dorée.
Mais, pour railler
La peine qui m’oppresse,
J’entends piailler
Les oiseaux en liesse.

by Charles Cros.

I WILL make you brooches and toys for your delight
Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.
I will make a palace fit for you and me,
Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,
Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,
And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white
In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.

And this shall be for music when no one else is near,
The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!
That only I remember, that only you admire,
Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.

by Robert Louis Stevenson.

On A Ruined House In A Romantic Country

And this reft house is that the which he built,
Lamented Jack ! And here his malt he pil'd,
Cautious in vain ! These rats that squeak so wild,
Squeak, not unconscious of their father's guilt.
Did ye not see her gleaming thro' the glade ?
Belike, 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn.
What though she milk no cow with crumpled horn,
Yet aye she haunts the dale where erst she stray'd ;
And aye beside her stalks her amorous knight !
Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn,
And thro' those brogues, still tatter'd and betorn,
His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white ;
As when thro' broken clouds at night's high noon
Peeps in fair fragments forth the full-orb'd harvest-moon !

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

MY Love dwelt in a Northern land.
A gray tower in a forest green
Was hers, and far on either hand
The long wash of the waves was seen,
And leagues on leagues of yellow sand,
The woven forest boughs between!

And through the silver Northern night
The sunset slowly died away,
And herds of strange deer, lily-white,
Stole forth among the branches gray;
About the coming of the light,
They fled like ghosts before the day!

I know not if the forest green
Still girdles round that castle gray;
I know not if the boughs between
The white deer vanish ere the day;
Above my Love the grass is green,
My heart is colder than the clay!

by Andrew Lang.

'Talk of pluck!' pursued the Sailor,
Set at euchre on his elbow,
'I was on the wharf at Charleston,
Just ashore from off the runner.

'It was grey and dirty weather,
And I heard a drum go rolling,
Rub-a-dubbing in the distance,
Awful dour-like and defiant.

'In and out among the cotton,
Mud, and chains, and stores, and anchors,
Tramped a squad of battered scarecrows -
Poor old Dixie's bottom dollar!

'Some had shoes, but all had rifles,
Them that wasn't bald was beardless,
And the drum was rolling Dixie,
And they stepped to it like men, sir!

'Rags and tatters, belts and bayonets,
On they swung, the drum a-rolling,
Mum and sour. It looked like fighting,
And they meant it too, by thunder!'

by William Ernest Henley.

He looks at me with a madman's eyes -
It's your house and porch I know so well.
He gives me a kiss with his crimson lips -
Our ancestors had gone to war in scales of steel.

He brought me a bouquet of crimson carnations -
It's your austere face I know so well.
He asked in return for a single kiss -
Our ancestors had gone to war in scales of steel.

He touched me with his finger bearing a dark ring -
It is your dark ring I know so well.
Together we tumbled down on a Turkish divan -
Our ancestors had gone to war in scales of steel.

He looks at me with a madman's eyes -
Dwindle away, o you stars, and fade, o you moon!
He gives me a kiss with his crimson lips -
Our ancestors had gone to war in scales of steel.

by Daniil Ivanovich Kharms.

Romance Af Festen Paa Kenilworth

Hyrden græsser sine Faar,
Gjærdet er hans Throne,
Solen Purpur om ham slaaer,
Maanen er hans Krone.
Hvad mon vel han tænker paa?
længe taus han stod og saae
frem i Aftenstunden.
Hjertet veed, Kjærlighed
er det fagreste Træ i Lunden.

Kongens Datter, stolt og fiin,
staaer i Kongeborgen;
Silke, Guld og Hermelin
skjule ikke Sorgen.
Tanken, som en Fugl saa let,
flyver, bliver aldrig træt,
synger: „Jeg har funden!"
Hjertet veed, Kjærlighed
er det fagreste Træ i Lunden.

Vind og Blomst, svar, hver især,
kommer hun dog ikke?
Vinden hvisker: „Hun er nær!"
Blomsterne de nikke.
Skjult en Sti fra Slottet gaaer,
Fuglen høit bag Krattet slaaer:
„Han har hende funden!"
Hjertet veed, Kjærlighed
er det fagreste Træ i Lunden.

by Hans Christian Andersen.

Of old, on her terrace at evening
...not some long-gone kingdom
O, folded close to her breast!...

--our gaze dwelt wide on the blackness
(was it trees? or a shadowy passion
the pain of an old-world longing
that it sobb'd, that it swell'd, that it shrank?)
--the gloom of the forest
blurr'd soft on the skirt of the night-skies
that shut in our lonely world.

...not some long-gone world...

close-lock'd in that passionate arm-clasp
no word did we utter, we stirr'd not:
the silence of Death, or of Love...
only, round and over us
that tearless infinite yearning
and the Night with her spread wings rustling
folding us with the stars.

...not some long-gone kingdom
of old, on her terrace at evening
O, folded close to her heart!...

by Christopher John Brennan.

The Lady Beatriz.Romance.From The Spanish.—thirteenth Century.

There were stately nuptials in France,
In the royal town of Paris:
Who is it leads the dance?
The lovely Lady Beatriz.
Who is it gazes on her,
With looks so earnest and bright?
’Tis her noblest Page of Honour,
Don Martin, Count and Knight.
The bride and her maidens advance
Young Count, why lookest thou so?
Are thy dark eyes fixed on the dance,
Or on me? Oh! I fain would know.
I gaze not upon the dance,
Sweet Beatriz, lady mine;
For many a galliard I’ve seen in France,
But never such beauty as thine.

Then if thou lovest me so, young Count,
Oh! take me away with thee;
For nor gay nor young, though a prince’s son,
Is the bridegroom they’d wed with me.
There was mourning in France, I ween,
In the royal town of Paris;
For no more was seen either Count Martín
Or the lovely Lady Beatriz.

by Lady Jane Wilde.

Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been- a most familiar bird-
Taught me my alphabet to say-
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie,
A child- with a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal Condor years
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Through gazing on the unquiet sky.
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flings-
That little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away- forbidden things!
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings.

by Edgar Allan Poe.

Romance Of Dunois

It was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound for Palestine,
But first he made his orisons before Saint Mary's shrine:
'And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven,' was still the Soldier’s prayer;
'That I may prove the bravest knight, and love the fairest fair.'

His oath of honour on the shrine he graved it with his sword,
And followed to the Holy Land the banner of his Lord;
Where, faithful to his noble vow, his war-cry filled the air,
'Be honoured aye the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair.'

They owed the conquest to his arm, and then his Liege–Lord said,
'The heart that has for honour beat by bliss must be repaid.-—
My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a wedded pair,
For thou art bravest of the brave, she fairest of the fair.'

And then they bound the holy knot before Saint Mary's shrine,
That makes a paradise on earth, if hearts and hands combine;
And every lord and lady bright that were in chapel there
Cried, 'Honoured be the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair!'

by Sir Walter Scott.

Nys fyldte skjøn Sired det attende Aar,
Var roelig i Vinter og munter i Vaar,
Som Bækken i Engens det blomstrende Skjød,
Saa stille, saa klare de Dage henflød.

From var hun i Hjertet, i Adfærd saa blid,
Var rød som en Rose, som Lillien hvid;
To Øyne hun havde saa klare, saa blaae,
Som Himlen, til hvilken hun sørgefri saae.

Hun bandt uden Hensigt den skjønneste Krands;
Var altid den første i Sang og i Dands,
Saa mangen stolt Ungkarl forelskt hende saae;
Men haabløse lod hun dem alle bortgaae.

Rask ride de Bønder nu Sommer i Bye.
De Sange, de lyde saa høyt udi Skye,
Sin Oluf ved Gildet hun første Gang saae,
Veltalende Øyne hinanden forstaae.

Han elsker nu Sired og elskes igien;
Hun græder, da Oluf fra hende drog hen;
Med Glæde hun seer ham at komme til Bye;
Og naar han bortdrager, hun græder paa nye.

O Halvor! min Skiæbne skjøn Sireds er lig,
Saa frygter, saa haaber, saa elsker jeg dig.
O Halvor! med dig drog min Roelighed hen,
Din Gjenkomst allene kan bringe mig den.

by Thomas Thaarup.

Romance [kong Christjan Stoed Ved Høien Mast]

Kong Christjan stoed ved høien Mast
I Røg og Damp.
Hans Værge hamrede saa fast,
At Gothens Hielm og Hierne brast.
Da sank hvert fiendtligt Speil og Mast
I Røg og Damp.
Flye, skreg de, flye, hvad flygte kan!
Hvo staaer for Danmarks Christian
I Kamp?

Niels Juel gav Agt paa Stormens Brag.
Nu er det Tid.
Han heysede det røde Flag,
Og slog paa Fienden Slag i Slag.
Da skreg de høit blant Stormens Brag:
Nu er det Tid.
Flye, skreg de, hver, som veed et Skiul!
Hvo kan bestaae for Danmarks Juel
I Strid?

O Nordhav, Glimt af Vessel brød
Din mørke Skye.
Da tyede Kiemper til dit Skiød;
Thi med ham lynte Skrek og Død.
Fra Vallen hørtes Vraal, som brød
Den tykke Skye.
Fra Danmark lyner Tordenskiold;
Hver give sig i Himlens Vold,
Og flye!

Du Danskes Vei til Roes og Magt,
Sortladne Hav!
Modtag din Ven, som uforsagt,
Tør møde Faren med Foragt,
Saa stolt, som du, mod Stormens Magt,
Sortladne Hav!
Og rask igiennem Larm og Spil,
Og Kamp og Seier føer mig til
Min Grav.

by Johannes Ewald.

If it so befalls that the midnight hovers
In mist no moonlight breaks,
The leagues of the years my spirit covers,
And my self myself forsakes.

And I live in a land of stars and flowers,
White cliffs by a silvery sea;
And the pearly points of her opal towers
From the mountains beckon me.

And I think that I know that I hear her calling
From a casement bathed with light-
Through music of waters in waters falling
Mid palms from a mountain height.

And I feel that I think my love's awaited
By the romance of her charms;
That her feet are early and mine belated
In a world that chains my arms.

But I break my chains and the rest is easy-
In the shadow of the rose,
Snow-white, that blooms in her garden breezy,
We meet and no one knows.

And we dream sweet dreams and kiss sweet kisses;
The world-it may live or die!
The world that forgets; that never misses
The life that has long gone by.

We speak old vows that have long been spoken;
And weep a long-gone woe:
For you must know our hearts were broken
Hundreds of years ago.

by Madison Julius Cawein.

Love's Apparition And Evanishment: An Allegoric Romance

Like a lone Arab, old and blind,
Some caravan had left behind,
Who sits beside a ruin'd well,
Where the shy sand-asps bask and swell;
And now he hangs his ag{'e}d head aslant,
And listens for a human sound--in vain!
And now the aid, which Heaven alone can grant,
Upturns his eyeless face from Heaven to gain;--
Even thus, in vacant mood, one sultry hour,
Resting my eye upon a drooping plant,
With brow low-bent, within my garden-bower,
I sate upon the couch of camomile;
And--whether 'twas a transient sleep, perchance,
Flitted across the idle brain, the while
I watch'd the sickly calm with aimless scope,
In my own heart; or that, indeed a trance,
Turn'd my eye inward--thee, O genial Hope,
Love's elder sister! thee did I behold
Drest as a bridesmaid, but all pale and cold,
With roseless cheek, all pale and cold and dim,
Lie lifeless at my feet!
And then came Love, a sylph in bridal trim,
And stood beside my seat;
She bent, and kiss'd her sister's lips,
As she was wont to do;--
Alas! 'twas but a chilling breath
Woke just enough of life in death
To make Hope die anew.

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Romance [liden Gunver Vandrer Som Helst I Qveld]

Liden Gunver vandrer som helst i Qveld
Saa tankefuld.
Hendes Hierte var Vox, hendes unge Siel
Var prøvet Guld.
O vogt dig, mit Barn, for de falske Mandfolk!

Liden Gunver meder med Silken-Snoer
Ved Havets Bred;
Da hævedes Bølgen, og Vandet foer
Saa bradt afsted.
O vogt dig, mit Barn, for de falske Mandfolk!

Skiøn Havmand sig op af Havet skiød,
Beklædt med Tang.
Hans Øie var kierligt, hans Tale var sød,
Som Harpers Klang.

Liden Gunver, du martrer mig Dag og Nat,
Med Elskovs Ild.
Mit Hierte vansmægter, min Siel er mat.
O vær dog mild!

Du rekker mig kun din sneehvide Arm,
Paa Søemands Troe;
Saa trykker jeg den til min brændende Barm,
Saa faaer jeg Roe.

Liden Gunver, mit Bryst, bag sit haarde Skiel,
Er blødt og ømt.
Trofast er mit Navn, min ukunstlede Siel
Foragter Skrømt.

Og er dig min Arm til saa stor Behag,
Til Trøst og Roe;
Skiøn Havmand, saa skynd dig, saa kom kun, og tag
Dem begge to!

Han trak hende fra den steile Bred,
Glad ved sin Sviig.
Som Storm var hans Latter; men Fiskerne græd
Ved Gunvers Liig.
O vogt dig, mit Barn, for de falske Mandfolk!

by Johannes Ewald.

The Romance Of Patrolman Casey

There was a young patrolman who
Had large but tender feet;
They always hurt him badly when
He walked upon his beat.
(He always took them with him when
He walked upon his beat.)

His name was Patrick Casey and
A sweetheart fair had he;
Her face was full of freckles—but
Her name was Kate McGee.
(It was in spite of freckles that
Her name was Kate McGee.)

'Oh, Pat!' she said, 'I’ll wed you when
Promotion comes to you!'
'I’m much-obliged,' he answered, and
'I’ll see what I can do.'
(I may remark he said it thus—
'Oi’ll say phwat Oi kin do.')

So then he bought some new shoes which
Allowed his feet more ease—
They may have been large twelves. Perhaps
Eighteens, or twenty-threes.
(That’s rather large for shoes, I think—
Eighteens or twenty-threes!)

What last they were I don’t know, but
Somehow it seems to me
I’ve heard somewhere they either were
A, B, C, D, or E.
(More likely they were five lasts wide—
A, B plus C, D, E.)

They were the stoutest cowhide that
Could be peeled off a cow.

But he was not promoted

Kate wed him anyhow.

(This world is crowded full of Kates
That wed them anyhow.)

by Ellis Parker Butler.

Oriental Romance


Beyond lost seas of summer she
Dwelt on an island of the sea,
Last scion of that dynasty,
Queen of a race forgotten long.-
With eyes of light and lips of song,
From seaward groves of blowing lemon,
She called me in her native tongue,
Low-leaned on some rich robe of Yemen.


I was a king. Three moons we drove
Across green gulfs, the crimson clove
And cassia spiced, to claim her love.
Packed was my barque with gums and gold;
Rich fabrics; sandalwood, grown old
With odor; gems; and pearls of Oman,-
Than her white breasts less white and cold;-
And myrrh, less fragrant than this woman.


From Bassora I came. We saw
Her eagle castle on a claw
Of soaring precipice, o'erawe
The surge and thunder of the spray.
Like some great opal, far away
It shone, with battlement and spire,
Wherefrom, with wild aroma, day
Blew splintered lights of sapphirine fire.


Lamenting caverns dark, that keep
Sonorous echoes of the deep,
Led upward to her castle steep….
Fair as the moon, whose light is shed
In Ramadan, was she, who led
My love unto her island bowers,
To find her…. lying young and dead
Among her maidens and her flowers.

by Madison Julius Cawein.

A Romance In The Rough

A sturdy fellow, with a sunburnt face,
And thews and sinews of a giant mould;
A genial mind, that harboured nothing base,—
A pocket void of gold.

The rival’s years were fifty at the least—
Withered his skin, and wrinkled as a crone;
But day by day his worldly goods increased,
Till great his wealth had grown.

And she, the lady of this simple tale,
Was tall and straight, and beautiful to view;
Even a poet’s burning words would fail
To paint her roseate hue.

The suitors came, the old one and the young,
Each with fond words her fancy to allure.
For which of them should marriage bells be rung,
The rich one or the poor?

She liked the young one with his winning ways,
He seemed designed to be her future mate—
Besides, in novels and romantic plays
Love has a youthful gait.

But well she knew that poverty was hard,
And humble household cares not meant for her;
Nor cared she what the sentimental bard
Might warble or infer.

She made her choice, the wedding bells rang clear;
The aged bridegroom figured in the Times.
The young man, after some superfluous beer,
Went forth to foreign climes.

And this is all I ever chanced to know,
Told by my mate while digging on the Creek,
Who ended with his handsome face aglow,
And with a verse in Greek.

by Arthur Patchett Martin.

A Mulga Romance

Oh, he led his love through the church's aisle,
And be cried 'You bet!' with an eight horse smile.
When, the parson asked would he love and care
For the dainty thing with the forehead fair,
And the dimpled chin and the sun kissed locks,
O he yelled again, 'You may bet yer socks.'

For a rough-cut sleeper was Mulga Jim,
With never the sign of a fly on him.
Then he signed the book and be seized his prize,
With a joyful gleam in his big brown eyes.
As they jumped aboard of the north bound traín,
Oh, he gathered his girl, to his chest again.
And the days went by with a new-born vim
At the wayback mansion of Mulga Jim.

And the stars loomed bright and the sky loomed clear
Till nearing the end of the first half-year.
Then one fateful morning dressed neat and trim
A woman tripped out from the camp of Jim.
As laughing and smiling, 'I wish you joy,'
She said, 'You're the dad of a bouncing boy.'
Then Mulga Jim studied and scratched his head,
' Well, that I guess is a record,' he said.
'A plume in the cap of a way-back bloke -
The first damn record that ever I broke.'

Then he cut no caper nor went off 'pop,'
But closed the shutters of 'Cupid's' shop.
And be coiled his swag and he greased his straps
And said 'Good-bye' to the mulga chaps.
Then as fast and far from the scene he hied,
Who'd a' guessed it was loaded?' he sadly sighed.

by John Philip Bourke.

La Romance Du Vin

Tout se mêle en un vif éclat de gaieté verte
Ô le beau soir de mai ! Tous les oiseaux en chœur,
Ainsi que les espoirs naguère à mon cœur,
Modulent leur prélude à ma croisée ouverte.

Ô le beau soir de mai ! le joyeux soir de mai !
Un orgue au loin éclate en froides mélopées ;
Et les rayons, ainsi que de pourpres épées,
Percent le cœur du jour qui se meurt parfumé.

Je suis gai ! je suis gai ! Dans le cristal qui chante,
Verse, verse le vin ! verse encore et toujours,
Que je puisse oublier la tristesse des jours,
Dans le dédain que j'ai de la foule méchante !

Je suis gai ! je suis gai ! Vive le vin et l'Art !…
J'ai le rêve de faire aussi des vers célèbres,
Des vers qui gémiront les musiques funèbres
Des vents d'automne au loin passant dans le brouillard.

C'est le règne du rire amer et de la rage
De se savoir poète et objet du mépris,
De se savoir un cœur et de n'être compris
Que par le clair de lune et les grands soirs d'orage !

Femmes ! je bois à vous qui riez du chemin
Ou l'Idéal m'appelle en ouvrant ses bras roses ;
Je bois à vous surtout, hommes aux fronts moroses
Qui dédaignez ma vie et repoussez ma main !

Pendant que tout l'azur s'étoile dans la gloire,
Et qu'un rythme s'entonne au renouveau doré,
Sur le jour expirant je n'ai donc pas pleuré,
Moi qui marche à tâtons dans ma jeunesse noire !

Je suis gai ! je suis gai ! Vive le soir de mai !
Je suis follement gai, sans être pourtant ivre !…
Serait-ce que je suis enfin heureux de vivre ;
Enfin mon cœur est-il guéri d'avoir aimé ?

Les cloches ont chanté ; le vent du soir odore…
Et pendant que le vin ruisselle à joyeux flots,
Je suis gai, si gai, dans mon rire sonore,
Oh ! si gai, que j'ai peur d'éclater en sanglots !

by Émile Nelligan.

An Hour Of Romance

There were thick leaves above me and around,
And low sweet sighs like those of childhood's sleep,
Amidst their dimness, and a fitful sound
As of soft showers on water; dark and deep
Lay the oak shadows o'er the turf, so still
They seem'd but pictured glooms: a hidden rill
Made music, such as haunts us in a dream,
Under the fern-tufts; and a tender gleam

Of soft green light, as by the glow-worm shed,
Came pouring thro' the woven beech-boughs down,
And steep'd the magic page wherein I read
Of royal chivalry and old renown,
A tale of Palestine. Meanwhile the bee
Swept past me with a tone of summer hours,
A drowsy bugle, wafting thoughts of flowers,
Blue skies, and amber sunshine: brightly free,
On filmy wings the purple dragon-fly
Shot glancing like a fairy javelin by;
And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell
Where sat the lone wood-pigeon:
But ere long,
All sense of these things faded, as the spell
Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew strong
On my chain'd soul: 'twas not the leaves I heard
A Syrian wind the Lion-banner stirr'd,
Thro' its proud, floating folds: 'twas not the brook,
Singing in secret thro' its grassy glen;
A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen
Peal'd from the desert's lonely heart, and shook
The burning air. Like clouds when winds are high,
O'er glittering sands flew steeds of Araby,
And tents rose up, and sudden lance and spear
Flash'd where a fountain's diamond wave lay clear,
Shadow'd by graceful palm-trees. Then the shout
Of merry England's joy swell'd freely out,
Sent thro' an eastern heaven, whose glorious hue
Made shields dark mirrors to its depths of blue:
And harps were there; I heard their sounding strings,
As the waste echoed to the mirth of kings.
The bright masque faded. Unto life's worn track,
What call'd me from its flood of glory, back?
A voice of happy childhood! and they pass'd,
Banner, and harp, and Paynim's trumpet's blast;
Yet might I scarce bewail the splendours gone,
My heart so leap'd to that sweet laughter's tone.

by Felicia Dorothea Hemans.

Thus have I pictured her:-In Arden old
A white-browed maiden with a falcon eye,
Rose-flushed of face, with locks of wind-blown gold,
Teaching her hawks to fly.

Or, 'mid her boar-hounds, panting with the heat,
In huntsman green, sounding the hunt's wild prize,
Plumed, dagger-belted, while beneath her feet
The spear-pierced monster dies.

Or in Breceliand, on some high tower,
Clad white in samite, last of her lost race,
My soul beholds her, lovelier than a flower,
Gazing with pensive face.

Or, robed in raiment of romantic lore,
Like Oriana, dark of eye and hair,
Riding through realms of legend evermore,
And ever young and fair.

Or now like Bradamant, as brave as just,
In complete steel, her pure face lit with scorn,
At giant castles, dens of demon lust,
Winding her bugle-horn.

Another Una; and in chastity
A second Britomart; in beauty far
O'er her who led King Charles's chivalry
And Paynim lands to war….

Now she, from Avalon's deep-dingled bowers,-
'Mid which white stars and never-waning moons
Make marriage; and dim lips of musk-mouthed flowers
Sigh faint and fragrant tunes,-

Implores me follow; and, in shadowy shapes
Of sunset, shows me,-mile on misty mile
Of purple precipice,-all the haunted capes
Of her enchanted isle.

Where, bowered in bosks and overgrown with vine,
Upon a headland breasting violet seas,
Her castle towers, like a dream divine,
With stairs and galleries.

And at her casement, Circe-beautiful,
Above the surgeless reaches of the deep,
She sits, while, in her gardens, fountains lull
The perfumed wind asleep.

Or, round her brow a diadem of spars,
She leans and hearkens, from her raven height,
The nightingales that, choiring to the stars,
Take with wild song the night.

Or, where the moon is mirrored in the waves,
To mark, deep down, the Sea King's city rolled,
Wrought of huge shells and labyrinthine caves,
Ribbed pale with pearl and gold.

There doth she wait forever; and the kings
Of all the world have wooed her: but she cares
For none but him, the Love, that dreams and sings,
That sings and dreams and dares.

by Madison Julius Cawein.

Myth And Romance

When I go forth to greet the glad-faced Spring,
Just at the time of opening apple-buds,
When brooks are laughing, winds are whispering,
On babbling hillsides or in warbling woods,
There is an unseen presence that eludes:
Perhaps a Dryad, in whose tresses cling
The loamy odors of old solitudes,
Who, from her beechen doorway, calls; and leads
My soul to follow; now with dimpling words
Of leaves; and now with syllables of birds;
While here and there-is it her limbs that swing?
Or restless sunlight on the moss and weeds?


Or, haply, 't is a Naiad now who slips,
Like some white lily, from her fountain's glass,
While from her dripping hair and breasts and hips,
The moisture rains cool music on the grass.
Her have I heard and followed, yet, alas!
Have seen no more than the wet ray that dips
The shivered waters, wrinkling where I pass;
But, in the liquid light, where she doth hide,
I have beheld the azure of her gaze
Smiling; and, where the orbing ripple plays,
Among her minnows I have heard her lips,
Bubbling, make merry by the waterside.


Or now it is an Oread-whose eyes
Are constellated dusk-who stands confessed,
As naked as a flow'r; her heart's surprise,
Like morning's rose, mantling her brow and breast:
She, shrinking from my presence, all distressed
Stands for a startled moment ere she flies,
Her deep hair blowing, up the mountain crest,
Wild as a mist that trails along the dawn.
And is't her footfalls lure me? or the sound
Of airs that stir the crisp leaf on the ground?
And is't her body glimmers on yon rise?
Or dog-wood blossoms snowing on the lawn?


Now't is a Satyr piping serenades
On a slim reed. Now Pan and Faun advance
Beneath green-hollowed roofs of forest glades,
Their feet gone mad with music: now, perchance,
Sylvanus sleeping, on whose leafy trance
The Nymphs stand gazing in dim ambuscades
Of sun-embodied perfume.-Myth, Romance,
Where'er I turn, reach out bewildering arms,
Compelling me to follow. Day and night
I hear their voices and behold the light
Of their divinity that still evades,
And still allures me in a thousand forms.

by Madison Julius Cawein.

Ode - On The Death Of A Young Lady

The peace of Heaven attend thy shade,
My early friend, my favourite maid!
When life was new, companions gay,
We hail'd the morning of our day.

Ah! with what joy did I behold
The flower of beauty fair unfold!
And fear'd no storm to blast thy bloom,
Or bring thee to an early tomb!

Untimely gone! for ever fled
The roses of the cheek so red;
Th' affection warm, the temper mild,
The sweetness that in sorrow smiled.

Alas! the cheek where beauty glow'd,
The heart where goodness overflow'd,
A clod amid the valley lies,
And 'Dust to dust,' the mourner cries.

O from thy kindred early torn,
And to thy grave untimely borne!
Vanish'd for ever from my view,
Thou sister of my soul, adieu!

Fair, with my first ideas twined,
Thine image oft will meet my mind;
And, while remembrance brings thee near,
Affection sad will drop a tear.

How oft does sorrow bend the head,
Before we dwell among the dead!
Scarce in the years of manly prime,
I've often wept the wrecks of time.

What tragic tears bedew the eye!
What deaths we suffer ere we die!
Our broken friendships we deplore,
And love of youth that are no more.

No after-friendship e'er can raise
Th' endearments of our early days;
And ne'er the heart such fondness prove,
As when it first began to love.

Affection dies, a vernal flower;
And love, the blossom of an hour;
The spring of fancy cares control,
And mar the beauty of the soul.

Versed in the commerce of deceit,
How soon the heart forgets to beat!
The blood runs cold at interest's call: -
They look with equal eyes on all.

Then lovely nature is expell'd,
And friendship is romantic held;
Then prudence comes with hundred eyes:
The veil is rent - the vision flies.

The dear illusions will not last;
The era of enchantment's past;
The wild romance of life is done;
The real history is begun.

The sallies of the soul are o'er,
The feast of fancy is no more;
And ill the banquet is supplied
By form, by gravity, by pride.

Ye gods! whatever ye withold,
Let my affections ne'er grow old;
Ne'er may the human glow depart,
Nor nature yield to frigid art!

Still may the generous bosom burn,
Though doom'd to bleed o'er beauty's urn;
And still the friendly face appear,
Though moisten'd with a tender tear!

by John Logan.

The Romance Of The Knight

The pleasing sweets of spring and summer past,
The falling leaf flies in the sultry blast,
The fields resign their spangling orbs of gold,
The wrinkled grass its silver joys unfold,
Mantling the spreading moor in heavenly white,
Meeting from every hill the ravished sight.
The yellow flag uprears its spotted head,
Hanging regardant o'er its watery bed;
The worthy knight ascends his foaming steed,
Of size uncommon, and no common breed.
His sword of giant make hangs from his belt,
Whose piercing edge his daring foes had felt.
To seek for glory and renown he goes
To scatter death among his trembling foes;
Unnerved by fear, they trembled at his stroke;
So cutting blasts shake the tall mountain oak.

Down in a dark and solitary vale,
Where the curst screech-owl sings her fatal tale,
Where copse and brambles interwoven lie,
Where trees intwining arch the azure sky,
Thither the fate-marked champion bent his way,
By purling streams to lose the heat of day;
A sudden cry assaults his listening ear,
His soul's too noble to admit of fear.-
The cry re-echoes; with his bounding steed
He gropes the way from whence the cries proceed.
The arching trees above obscured the light,
Here 'twas all evening, there eternal night.
And now the rustling leaves and strengthened cry
Bespeaks the cause of the confusion nigh;
Through the thick brake th'astonished champion sees
A weeping damsel bending on her knees:
A ruffian knight would force her to the ground,
But still some small resisting strength she found.
(Women and cats, if you compulsion use,
The pleasure which they die for will refuse.)
The champion thus: 'Desist, discourteous knight,
Why dost thou shamefully misuse thy might?'
With eye contemptuous thus the knight replies,
'Begone! whoever dares my fury dies!'
Down to the ground the champion's gauntlet flew,
'I dare thy fury, and I'll prove it too.'

Like two fierce mountain-boars enraged they fly,
The prancing steeds make Echo rend the sky,
Like a fierce tempest is the bloody fight,
Dead from his lofty steed falls the proud ruffian knight.
The victor, sadly pleased, accosts the dame,
'I will convey you hence to whence you came.'
With look of gratitude the fair replied-
'Content; I in your virtue may confide.
But,' said the fair, as mournful she surveyed
The breathless corse upon the meadow laid,
'May all thy sins from heaven forgiveness find!
May not thy body's crimes affect thy mind!'

by Thomas Chatterton.

Parent of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious Queen of childish joys,
Who lead'st along, in airy dance,
Thy votive train of girls and boys;
At length, in spells no longer bound,
I break the fetters of my youth;
No more I tread thy mystic round,
But leave thy realms for those of Truth.

And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams
Which haunt the unsuspicious soul,
Where every nymph a goddess seems,
Whose eyes through rays immortal roll;
While Fancy holds her boundless reign,
And all assume a varied hue;
When Virgins seem no longer vain,
And even Woman's smiles are true.

And must we own thee, but a name,
And from thy hall of clouds descend?
Nor find a Sylph in every dame,
A Pylades in every friend?
But leave, at once, thy realms of air i
To mingling bands of fairy elves;
Confess that woman's false as fair,
And friends have feeling for---themselves?

With shame, I own, I've felt thy sway;
Repentant, now thy reign is o'er;
No more thy precepts I obey,
No more on fancied pinions soar;
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,
And think that eye to truth was dear;
To trust a passing wanton's sigh,
And melt beneath a wanton's tear!

Romance! disgusted with deceit,
Far from thy motley court I fly,
Where Affectation holds her seat,
And sickly Sensibility;
Whose silly tears can never flow
For any pangs excepting thine;
Who turns aside from real woe,
To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine.

Now join with sable Sympathy,
With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds,
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh,
Whose breast for every bosom bleeds;
And call thy sylvan female choir,
To mourn a Swain for ever gone,
Who once could glow with equal fire,
But bends not now before thy throne.

Ye genial Nymphs, whose ready tears
On all occasions swiftly flow;
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,
With fancied flames and phrenzy glow
Say, will you mourn my absent name,
Apostate from your gentle train
An infant Bard, at least, may claim
From you a sympathetic strain.

Adieu, fond race! a long adieu!
The hour of fate is hovering nigh;
E'en now the gulf appears in view,
Where unlamented you must lie:
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen,
Convuls'd by gales you cannot weather,
Where you, and eke your gentle queen,
Alas! must perish altogether.

by George Gordon Byron.

'Silly girl, listen!'
But she doesn't listen
While the village roofs glisten,
Bright in the sun.
'Silly girl, what do you do there,
As if there were someone to view there,
A face to gaze on and greet there,
A live form warmly to meet there,
When there is no one, none, do you hear?'
But she doesn't hear.

Like a dead stone
She stands there alone,
Staring ahead of her, peering around
For something that has to be found
Till, suddenly spying it,
She touches it, clutches it,
Laughing and crying.

Is it you, my Johnny, my true love, my dear?
I knew you would never forget me,
Even in death! Come with me, let me
Show you the way now!
Hold your breath, though,
And tiptoe lest stepmother hear!

What can she hear? They have made him
A grave, two years ago laid him
Away with the dead.
Save me, Mother of God! I'm afraid.
But why? Why should I flee you now?
What do I dread?
Not Johnny! My Johnny won't hurt me.
It is my Johnny! I see you now,
Your eyes, your white shirt.

But it's pale as linen you are,
Cold as winter you are!
Let my lips take the cold from you,
Kiss the chill o f the mould from you.

Dearest love, let me die with you,
In the deep earth lie with you,
For this world is dark and dreary,
I am lonely and weary!

Alone among the unkind ones
Who mock at my vision,
My tears their derision,
Seeing nothing, the blind ones!

Dear God! A cock is crowing,
Whitely glimmers the dawn.
Johnny! Where are you going?
Don't leave me! I am forlorn!

So, caressing, talking aloud to her
Lover, she stumbles and falls,
And her cry of anguish calls
A pitying crowd to her.

'Cross yourselves! It is, surely,
Her Johnny come back from the grave:
While he lived, he loved her entirely.
May God his soul now save!'

Hearing what they are saying,
I, too, start praying.

'The girl is out of her senses!'
Shouts a man with a learned air,
'My eye and my lenses
Know there's nothing there.

Ghosts are a myth
Of ale-wife and blacksmith.
Clodhoppers! This is treason
Against King Reason!'

'Yet the girl loves,' I reply diffidently,
'And the people believe reverently:
Faith and love are more discerning
Than lenses or learning.

You know the dead truths, not the living,
The world of things, not the world of loving.
Where does any miracle start?
Cold eye, look in your heart!'

by Adam Mickiewicz.