The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman

“While the men were making cartridges and the women lint; while a large frying-pan, full of melted pewter and lead, destined for the bullet-mould, was smoking over a burning furnace; while the videttes were watching the barricades with arms in their hands; while Enjolras, whom nothing could distract, was watching the videttes,—Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, a few others besides, sought each other and got together, as in the most peaceful days of their student-chats, and in a corner of this wine-shop

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changed into a casemate, within two steps of the redoubt which they had thrown up, their carbines, primed and loaded, resting on the back of their chairs, these gallant young men, so near their last hour, began to sing love-rhymes. ... The hour, the place, these memories of youth recalled, the few stars which began to shine in the sky, the funereal repose of these deserted streets, the imminence of the inexorable event, gave a pathetic charm to these rhymes, murmured in a low tone in the twilight by Jean Prouvaire, who, as we have said, was a sweet poet.”

Les Miserables: Saint Denis, Book XII, chapter vi.

Do you remember our charming times,
When we were both so young, and knew
Of naught on earth that was worth a wish
But love, and to look our best,—we two;

When all your birthdays, added to mine,
A total of forty would not bring,
And when, in our humble and cosey roost,
All, even the Winter, to us was Spring?

Rare days! then prudish Manuel stalked,
Paris a godly life essayed,
For thundered, and yes, 't was then a pin
In your bodice pricked my hand that abrayed!

Every one ogled you. At Prado's,
Where you and your briefless barrister dined,
You were so pretty, the roses, I thought,
Turned to look at you from behind.

They seemed to whisper: “How handsome she is!
What wavy tresses! what sweet perfume!
Under her mantle she hides her wings;
Her flower of a bonnet is just in bloom!”

I roamed with you, pressing your dainty arm,
And the passers thought that Love, in play,
Had mated, in unison so sweet,
The gallant April with gentle May.

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We lived so merrily, all by ourselves,
On love,—that choice forbidden fruit,—
And never a word my mouth could speak
But your heart already had followed suit.

The Sorbonne was that bucolic place
Where night till day my passion throve:
'T is thus that an ardent youngster makes
The Latin Quarter a Land of Love.

O Place Maubert! O Place Dauphine!
Sky-parlor reaching heavenward far,
In whose depths, when you drew your stocking on,
I saw, methought, a shining star.

Hard-learned Plato I 've long forgot:
Neither Malebranche nor Lamennais
Taught me such faith in Providence
As the flower which in your bosom lay.

You were my servant and I your slave:
O golden attic! O joy, at morn,
To lace you—watch you dressing, and viewing
Your girlish face in that glass forlorn!

Ah! who indeed could ever forget
The sky and dawn commingling still;
That ribbony, flowery, gauzy glory,
And Love's sweet nonsense talked at will?

Our garden a pot of tulips was;
Your petticoat curtained the window-pane;
I took for myself the earthen bowl,
And passed you a cup of porcelain.

What huge disasters to make us fun!
Your muff afire; your tippet lost;

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And that cherished portrait of Shakespeare, sold,
One hungry evening, at half its cost.

I was a beggar and you were kind:
A kiss from your fair round arms I 'd steal,
While the folio-Dante we gayly spread
With a hundred chestnuts, our frugal meal.

And oh! when first my favored mouth
A kiss to your burning lips had given,
You were dishevelled and all aglow;
I, pale with rapture, believed in Heaven.

Do you remember our countless joys,
Those neckerchiefs rumpled every day?
Alas, what sighs from our boding hearts
The infinite skies have borne away!

University of Virginia Library

JEAN PROUVAIRE'S SONG AT THE BARRICADE