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Orval, or The Fool of Time

And Other Imitations and Paraphrases. By Robert Lytton
Lytton, Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton (1831-1891)

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[dedication]
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ORVAL;
 I. 
FIRST EPOCH. BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM.
 2. 
SECOND EPOCH. HUSBAND AND WIFE.
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THIRD EPOCH. FATHER AND SON.
 I. 
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 II. 
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 III. 
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 V. 
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 VI. 
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 VII. 
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 VIII. 
Scene VIII.
 IV. 
FOURTH EPOCH. MAN AND MAN.
 5. 
FIFTH EPOCH. MAN AND FATE.
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IMITATIONS AND PARAPHRASES.
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NONNOS.
  
EUROPA.
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VIRGIL.
  
THE BEES OF ARISTÆUS.
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LUCRETIUS.
  
INVOCATION TO VENUS
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DANTE.
  
THE FIRST CANTO OF THE INFERNO.
  
FRANCESCA DA RIMINO.
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MICHELAGNOLO BUONARROTI
  
THE BIRTH OF LOVE.
  
LOVE VINDICATED.
  
MADRIGALS.
  
CANZONE.
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RONSARD.
 I. 
“Voici le bois que ma saincte Angelette.”
 II. 
“Cache pour cest nuict.”
 III. 
“Page suy moy.”
 IV. 
“Les espics sont à Ceres.”
 V. 
“Ma douce jouvence.”
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DANISH.
  
THE ELVES.
  
LORD OLAF.
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SERVIAN.
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THE BATTLE OF KOSSOVO.
 I. 
I.
 II. 
II.
 III. 
III.
 IV. 
IV.
 V. 
V.
 VI. 
VI.
 VII. 
VII.
 I. 
I.THE STAG AND THE VILA.
 II. 
II.LOVE AND SLEEP.
 III. 
III.TITTLE-TATTLE.
 IV. 
IV.MATRIMONIAL CONSIDERATIONS.
 V. 
V.LOVE CONFERS NOBILITY.
 VI. 
VI.A SOUL'S SWEETNESS.
 VII. 
VII.REMINISCENCES.
 VIII. 
VIII.SLEEP AND DEATH.
 IX. 
IX.A CONJUGAL DISPUTE.
 X. 
X.DEGREES OF AFFECTION.
 XI. 
XI.THE FAIR IKONIA.
 XII. 
XII.A WISH.
 XIII. 
XIII.IMPERFECTION.
 XIV. 
XIV.EMANCIPATION.
 XV. 
XV.THE VOICE OF NATURE; OR, WHAT THE FISH SAID TO THE MAIDEN.
 XVI. 
XVI.THE MALADY OF MOIO.
 XVII. 
XVII.A SERVIAN BEAUTY.
 XVIII. 
XVIII.A DISCREET YOUNG WOMAN.
 XIX. 
XIX.BOLOZÀNOVITCH THE KNAVE.
 XX. 
XX.THE WIFE OF HASSAN AGA.
 XXI. 
XXI.SLEEPLESSNESS.
 XXII. 
XXII.NEGLECTED FLOWERS.
 XXIII. 
XXIII.PLUCKING A FLOWER.
 XXIV. 
XXIV.TRANSPLANTING A FLOWER.
 XXV. 
XXV.A MESSAGE.
 XXVI. 
XXVI.ISOLATION.
 XXVII. 
XXVII.A REGRET.
 XXVIII. 
XXVIII.THE BAN OF VARADIN.
 XXIX. 
XXIX.FATIMA AND MEHMED.

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“Ma douce jouvence.”

My sweet youth now is all done:
The strength and the beauty are gone:
The tooth now is black: and the head now is white:
And the nerves now are loos'd: in the veins
Only water (not blood now) remains
Where the pulse beat of old with delight.
Adieu! O my lyre! O adieu
You sweet women, my lost loves! and you,
Each dead passion! The end creepeth nigher.
Not one pastime of youth has kept pace
With my age: nought is left in their place
But the bed, and the cup, and the fire.
344

My head is confused with low fears,
And sickness, and too many years,
Some care in each corner I meet.
And wherever I linger, or go,
I turn back, and look after, to know
If Death be still dogging my feet:
Dogging me down the dark stair
That windeth, I cannot tell where,
To some Pluto, that opens for ever
His cave to all comers: alas,
How easily down it all pass,
And return from it—never, ah never!
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