Jasmin: Barber, Poet, Philanthropist Part 25

Well! as it is, of this I've dreamt for twenty years-- You laugh, Madame, at my great happiness, Perhaps you'll laugh still more, when it appears, That when I bought the place, I must confess There were no fruits, Though rich in roots; Nine cherry trees--behold my wood!

Ten rows of vines--my promenade!

A few peach trees; the hazels too; Of elms and fountains there are two.

How rich I am! My muse is grateful very; Oh! might I paint? while I the pencil try, Our country loves the Heavens so bright and cheery.

Here, verdure starts up as we scratch the ground, Who owns it, strips it into pieces round; Beneath our sun there's nought but gayest sound.

You tell me, true, that in your Paris hot-house, You ripen two months sooner 'neath your gla.s.s, of course.

What is your fruit? Mostly of water clear, The heat may redden what your tendrils bear.

But, lady dear, you cannot live on fruits alone while here!

Now slip away your glossy glove And pluck that ripened peach above, Then place it in your pearly mouth And suck it--how it 'lays your drouth-- Melts in your lips like honey of the South!

Dear Madame, in the North you have great sights-- Of churches, castles, theatres of greatest heights; Your works of art are greater far than here.

But come and see, quite near The banks of the Garonne, on a sweet summer's day, All works of G.o.d! and then you'll say No place more beautiful and gay!

You see the rocks in all their velvet greenery; The plains are always gold; and mossy very, The valleys, where we breathe the healthy air, And where we walk on beds of flowers most fair!

The country round your Paris has its flowers and greensward, But 'tis too grand a dame for me, it is too dull and sad.

Here, thousand houses smile along the river's stream; Our sky is bright, it laughs aloud from morn to e'en.

Since month of May, when brightest weather bounds For six months, music through the air resounds-- A thousand nightingales the shepherd's ears delight: All sing of Love--Love which is new and bright.

Your Opera, surprised, would silent hearken, When day for night has drawn aside its curtain, Under our heavens, which very soon comes glowing.

Listen, good G.o.d! our concert is beginning!

What notes! what raptures? Listen, shepherd-swains, One chaunt is for the hill-side, the other's for the plains.

"Those lofty mountains Far up above, I cannot see All that I love; Move lower, mountains, Plains, up-move, That I may see All that I love."{2}

And thousand voices sound through Heaven's alcove, Coming across the skies so blue, Making the angels smile above-- The earth embalms the songsters true; The nightingales, from tree to flower, Sing louder, fuller, stronger.

'Tis all so sweet, though no one beats the measure, To hear it all while concerts last--such pleasure!

Indeed my vineyard's but a seat of honour, For, from my hillock, shadowed by my bower, I look upon the fields of Agen, the valley of Verone.{3} How happy am I 'mongst my vines! Such pleasures there are none.

For here I am the poet-dresser, working for the wines.

I only think of propping up my arbours and my vines; Upon the road I pick the little stones-- And take them to my vineyard to set them up in cones, And thus I make a little house with but a sheltered door-- As each friend, in his turn, now helps to make the store.

And then there comes the vintage--the ground is firm and fast, With all my friends, with wallets or with baskets cast, We then proceed to gather up the fertile grapes at last.

Oh! my young vine, The sun's bright shine Hath ripened thee All--all for me!

No drizzling showers Have spoilt the hours.

My muse can't borrow; My friends, to-morrow Cannot me lend; But thee, young friend, Grapes nicely drest, With figs the finest And raisins gather Bind them together!

Th' abundant season Will still us bring A glorious harvesting; Close up thy hands with bravery Upon the luscious grapery!

Now all push forth their tendrils; though not past remedy, At th' hour when I am here, my faithful memory Comes crowding back; my oldest friends Now make me young again--for pleasure binds Me to their hearts and minds.

But now the curtained night comes on again.

I see, the meadows sweet around, My little island, midst the varying ground, Where I have often laughed, and sometimes I have groaned.

I see far off the leafy woodland, Or near the fountain, where I've; often dreamed; Long time ago there was a famous man{4} Who gave its fame to Agen.

I who but write these verses slight Midst thoughts of memory bright.

But I will tell you all--in front, to left, to right, More than a hedgerow thick that I have brought the light, More than an apple-tree that I have trimmed, More than an old vine-stalk that I have thinned To ripen lovely Muscat.

Madame, you see that I look back upon my past, Without a blush at last; What would you? That I gave my vineyard back-- And that with usury? Alack!

And yet unto my garden I've no door-- Two thorns are all my fence--no more!

When the marauders come, and through a hole I see their nose, Instead of taking up a stick to give them blows, I turn aside; perhaps they never may return, the horde!

He who young robs, when older lets himself be robbed!

Endnotes to MY VINEYARD.

{1} Jasmin purchased a little piece of ground, which he dedicated to his "Curl-papers" (Papilhoto), on the road to Scaliger's villa, and addressed the above lines to his lady-admirer in Paris, Madame Louis veill.

{2} From a popular song by Gaston Phebus.

{3} Referring to Verona, the villa of Scaliger, the great scholar.

{4} Scaliger.

FRANCONNETTE.

FIRST PART.

Blaise de Montluc--Festival at Roquefort--The Prettiest Maiden--The Soldier and the Shepherds--Kissing and Panting-- Courage of Pascal--Fury of Marcel--Terrible Contest.

'Twas at the time when Blaise the murderous Struck heavy blows by force of arms.

He hewed the Protestants to pieces, And, in the name of G.o.d the Merciful, Flooded the earth with sorrow, blood, and tears.

Alas! 'twas pitiful--far worse beyond the hills, Where flashing gun and culverin were heard; There the unhappy bore their heavy cross, And suffered, more than elsewhere, agonising pain, Were killed and strangled, tumbled into wells; 'Tween Penne and Fumel the saddened earth was gorged.

Men, women, children, murdered everywhere, The hangman even stopped for breath; While Blaise, with heart of steel, dismounted at the gate Of his strong castle wall, With triple bridge and triple fosse; Then kneeling, made his pious prayers, Taking the Holy Sacrament, His hands yet dripping with fraternal blood!{1}

Now every shepherd, every shepherd la.s.s, At the word Huguenot shuddered with affright, Even 'midst their laughing courtship.

And yet it came to pa.s.s That in a hamlet, 'neath a castled height, One Sunday, when a troop of sweethearts danced Upon the day of Roquefort fete, And to a fife the praises sang Of Saint James and the August weather-- That bounteous month which year by year, Through dew-fall of the evening bright, And heat of Autumn noons doth bring Both grapes and figs to ripening.

It was the finest fete that eyes had ever seen Under the shadow of the leafy parasol, Where aye the country-folk convene.

O'erflowing were the s.p.a.ces all, From cliff, from dale, from every home Of Montagnac and Sainte-Colombe, Still they do come, Too many far to number; More, ever more, while flames the sunshine o'er, There's room for all, their coming will not c.u.mber, The fields shall be their chamber, and the little hillocks green The couches of their slumber.

What pleasure! what delight! the sun now fills the air; The sweetest thing in life Is the music of the fife And the dancing of the fair.

You see their baskets emptying Of waffles all home-made.

They quaff the nectar sparkling Of freshest lemonade.

What crowds at Punchinello, While the showman beats his cymbal!

Crowds everywhere!

But who is this appears below?

Ah! 'tis the beauteous village queen!

Yes, 'tis she; 'tis Franconnette!

A fairer girl was never seen.

In the town as in the prairie, You must know that every country Has its chosen pearl of love.

Ah, well! This was the one-- They named her in the Canton, The prettiest, sweetest dove.

But now, you must not fancy, gentlemen, That she was sad and sighing, Her features pale as any lily, That she had dying eyes, half-shut and blue, And slender figure clothed with languishing, Like to a weeping willow by a limpid lake.

Not so, my masters. Franconnette Had two keen flashing eyes, like two live stars; Her laughing cheeks were round, where on a lover might Gather in handfuls roses bright; Brown locks and curly decked her head; Her lips were as the cherry red, Whiter than snow her teeth; her feet How softly moulded, small and fleet; How light her limbs! Ah, well-a-day!

And of the whole at once I say, She was the very beau-ideal Of beauty in a woman's form, most fair and real.