Wine, Women, and Song Part 8

No. 14.

Hail! thou longed-for month of May, Dear to lovers every day!

Thou that kindlest hour by hour Life in man and bloom in bower!

O ye crowds of flowers and hues That with joy the sense confuse, Hail! and to our bosom bring Bliss and every jocund thing!

Sweet the concert of the birds; Lovers listen to their words: For sad winter hath gone by, And a soft wind blows on high.

Earth hath donned her purple vest, Fields with laughing flowers are dressed, Shade upon the wild wood spreads, Trees lift up their leafy heads; Nature in her joy to-day Bids all living things be gay; Glad her face and fair her grace Underneath the sun's embrace!

Venus stirs the lover's brain, With life's nectar fills his vein, Pouring through his limbs the heat Which makes pulse and pa.s.sion beat.

O how happy was the birth When the loveliest soul on earth Took the form and life of thee, Shaped in all felicity!

O how yellow is thy hair!

There is nothing wrong, I swear, In the whole of thee; thou art Framed to fill a loving heart!

Lo, thy forehead queenly crowned, And the eyebrows dark and round, Curved like Iris at the tips, Down the dark heavens when she slips!

Red as rose and white as snow Are thy cheeks that pale and glow; 'Mid a thousand maidens thou Hast no paragon, I vow.

Round thy lips and red as be Apples on the apple-tree; Bright thy teeth as any star; Soft and low thy speeches are; Long thy hand, and long thy side, And the throat thy b.r.e.a.s.t.s divide; All thy form beyond compare Was of G.o.d's own art the care.

Sparks of pa.s.sion sent from thee Set on fire the heart of me; Thee beyond all whom I know I must love for ever so.

Lo, my heart to dust will burn Unless thou this flame return; Still the fire will last, and I, Living now, at length shall die!

Therefore, Phyllis, hear me pray, Let us twain together play, Joining lip to lip and breast Unto, breast in perfect rest!

The lover is occasionally bashful, sighing at a distance.

MODEST LOVE.

No. 15.

Summer sweet is coming in; Now the pleasant days begin; Phoebus rules the earth at last; For sad winter's reign is past.

Wounded with the love alone Of one girl, I make my moan: Grief pursues me till she bend Unto me and condescend.

Take thou pity on my plight!

With my heart thy heart unite!

In my love thy own love blending, Finding thus of life the ending!

Occasionally his pa.s.sion a.s.sumes a romantic tone, as is the case with the following _Serenade_ to a girl called Flos-de-spina in the Latin.

Whether that was her real name, or was only used for poetical purposes, does not admit of debate now. Anyhow, Flos-de-spina, Fior-di-spina, Fleur-d'epine, and English Flower-o'-the-thorn are all of them pretty names for a girl.

THE SERENADE TO FLOWER-O'-THE-THORN.

No. 16.

The blithe young year is upward steering.

Wild winter dwindles, disappearing; The short, short days are growing longer, Rough weather yields and warmth is stronger.

Since January dawned, my mind Waves. .h.i.ther, thither, love-inclined For one whose will can loose or bind.

Prudent and very fair the maiden, Than rose or lily more love-laden; Stately of stature, lithe and slender, There's naught so exquisite and tender.

The Queen of France is not so dear; Death to my life comes very near If Flower-o'-the-thorn be not my cheer.

The Queen of Love my heart is killing With her gold arrow pain-distilling; The G.o.d of Love with torches burning Lights pyre on pyre of ardent yearning.

She is the girl for whom I'd die; I want none dearer, far or nigh, Though grief on grief upon me lie.

I with her love am thralled and taken, Whose flower doth flower, bud, bloom, and waken; Sweet were the labour, light the burden, Could mouth kiss mouth for wage and guerdon.

No touch of lips my wound can still, Unless two hearts grow one, one will, One longing! Flower of flowers, farewell!

Once at least we find him writing in absence to his mistress, and imploring her fidelity. This ranks among the most delicate in sentiment of the whole series.

THE LOVE-LETTER IN SPRING.

No. 17.

Now the sun is streaming, Clear and pure his ray; April's glad face beaming On our earth to-day.

Unto love returneth Every gentle mind; And the boy-G.o.d burneth Jocund hearts to bind.

All this budding beauty, Festival array, Lays on us the duty To be blithe and gay.

Trodden ways are known, love!

And in this thy youth, To retain thy own love Were but faith and truth.

In faith love me solely, Mark the faith of me, From thy whole heart wholly, From the soul of thee.

At this time of bliss, dear, I am far away; Those who love like this, dear, Suffer every day!

At one time he seems upon the point of clasping his felicity.

A SPRING DITTY.

No. 18.

In the spring, ah happy day!

Underneath a leafy spray With her sister stands my may.

O sweet love!

He who now is reft of thee Poor is he!