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TRANSLATIONS AND PARAPHRASES.

THE ORIGIN OF LOVE.

AN ALLEGORY FROM THE GREEK OF PLATO.

I.

When Beauty was born, a magnificent fête
Was ordered to crown the auspicious event;
And to all the Olympians, little and great,
And many besides, invitations were sent.

II.

In the various throng who attended the rout
Was Plenty (of Prudence the favorite son),
A rosy-cheeked god, who went strolling about
In the garden of Jove, when the banquet was done.

III.

Here, falling asleep at the close of the day,
Miss Poverty saw him,—a mendicant maid,
Who chanced at the time to be passing that way,
And entered the garden to follow her trade.

IV.

How the damsel, at sight, fell in love with the youth,
It is easy to guess; though I never could learn,
As touching another more wonderful truth,
How she managed to waken his love in return.

V.

But so it befell; and the marriage came off
In a manner not quite the conventional thing;
And Virtue will scold, and Propriety scoff
When couples forget the connubial ring.

VI.

The union occasioned no little surprise;
And gossip, of course, was exceedingly free
With merry remark and sarcastic surmise
As to “what in creation the offspring would be.”

VII.

But Time, the Expositor, settled the doubt
To the perfect content of the people above;
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One sunshiny morning the secret was out;
The baby was born, and who was it but Love!

VIII.

As the urchin grew up, it was plain to be seen
He shared all the traits both of mother and sire:
A singular mixture of noble and mean;
A deal to regret, with as much to admire.

IX.

As the grandson of Prudence, the younker displayed
A turn for intrigue and a masterful mind;
While, as Poverty's son, he as clearly betrayed
A nature to fawning and begging inclined.

X.

By his sire he is courtly, voluptuous, proud;
Abundant in hope and ambitious in aim.
By his mother, submissive and easily cowed;
Suspicious, mendacious, and fearful of blame.

THE TRAVELER AND THE STATUE.

A DIALOGUE.

From the Greek of Posidippus.

SCENE.
A market-place in Athens, where are seen
Statues of gods and goddesses, serene
In marble majesty. Among the rest,
A group wherein the sculptor has exprest
Some tale, or moral homily, where these
Symbolic shapes in stone the observer sees:
A human figure resting on a wheel,
With wingéd feet, while flowing locks conceal
The eyes; and yet (to make the gazer stare!)
The head, behind, shows not a tuft of hair!
Hard by, observe, another figure stands,—
A maid, who seems to weep and wring her hands.
Enter a Traveler who, gazing, seeks
The Statue's meaning. Thus, at length, he speaks:—

TRAVELER.
Tell me, O Image! by what sculptor's grace
Of wondrous art thou standest in this place?

STATUE.
Of Phidias thou hast heard; whose magic hand
Can re-create the gods. See! where they stand,
Jove, Juno, and Minerva! He alone
Could place me here—a homily in stone—
Among the immortals. Yet no god am I,
Although I claim close kindred with the sky;
My name, I hear, through all the world has flown;
As Opportunity to mortals I am known.

TRAVELER.
Tell me, O Image! what the wheel may mean,
On which, as a support, thou seem'st to lean.

STATUE.
The wheel thou seest, if thou dost rightly read
The pregnant sign, denotes my rapid speed.

TRAVELER.
And on thy feet a pair of wings are wrought;
Tell me of these the cunning sculptor's thought.

STATUE.
From those my brief abiding thou may'st learn;
Neglected once, I nevermore return.

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TRAVELER.
And why those flowing locks that hide thine eyes?

STATUE.
Because I'm seldom seen save in disguise.

TRAVELER.
But why no hair behind?—tell me, I pray!

STATUE.
That none may seize me as I flee away!

TRAVELER.
And who is she behind,—so sad of mien?

STATUE.
Repentance is her name; still is she seen
To follow him, the wretch, who weakly fails
To seize me when the timely hour avails
For noble action. Thus she serves to teach,
“Be swift to seize the good within thy reach,
Lest it be lost forever!” Ask no more!
E'en while I speak, away—away I soar!

THE KING'S GOBLET.

PARAPHRASED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.

I.

“Ho! every gallant knight and squire
Attend!” exclaimed the king;
“This Golden Goblet shall be his,
Who from this rock will spring,
And from the dark abyss below
The cup to me will bring!”

II.

And at the word, from where he stood
Upon the rocky steep,
He cast the Golden Goblet down
Beneath the ocean deep;
Far down into the black abyss
Where roaring eddies sweep.

III.

And thrice the king to all his men
The proclamation made;
But all were mute: nor knight nor squire
The fearful feat essayed;
To follow where the cup went down,
The boldest were afraid.

IV.

Now while in silence round the king
They stood in grim array,
Up came a page of handsome mien,
A gallant youth and gay;
And straight he took his girdle off,
And cast his cloak away.

V.

And while they praised his form and face,
And marveled what he meant,
Far out upon the dizzy cliff
The gallant stripling went;
And there a long and steady gaze
Into the deep he sent.

VI.

A whispered prayer, and down he leaps
From off the giddy height,
Into the foaming flood below,
Where all is black as night!
(A hundred shouts went up to Heaven,
And he was lost to sight!

VII.

Then spake the bravest knight of all
Who saw that fearful thing,
“If thus your Gracious Majesty
His jeweled crown should fling,
Pardie! I would not seek it there,
To wear it as a king!

VIII.

“Alas! that one so young and fair
Should find a watery grave;
In vain were mortal succor now
The gallant boy to save!”
But see!—an arm is gleaming forth
Above the foaming wave!

IX.

'T is he! see how his straining arms
Obey his will's command;
One struggle more,—the boy is saved
His foot is on the land!
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And now he bows before the king,
The goblet in his hand!

X.

“Here, daughter! fill the cup with wine!”
The king exclaimed aloud;
Whereat a damsel, young and fair,
In filial duty bowed;
And soon returned the brimming cup,
Before the smiling crowd.

XI.

“Long live your gracious Majesty!”
He said, and drank the wine;
“And may no mortal ever dare
A deed so dread as mine;
Nor brave the monsters that I saw
Beneath the foamy brine!

XII.

“Ah, me! to think of all I saw;
It fills me now with dread!
The horrid sharks and dragons huge
That in the sea are bred;
And serpents vast that coil and crawl
Within their slimy bed.

XIII.

“The goblet hung upon a crag
Far down as I could dive;
I know not how I got me thence,
Though fiercely I did strive;
But God is good, and heard my prayer,
And here I stand alive!”

XIV.

“The cup is thine!” the monarch said;
“And thou hast earned it dear;
But, thou shalt have this costly ring,
(A diamond large and clear!)
To dive again, and further bring
What thou shalt see and hear!”

XV.

“Nay, father!”—thus the maiden spoke,—
“This cruel play forbear;
And let some hardy knight of thine
The page's honor share;
Already has the boy achieved
What not a man did dare!”

XVI.

'T was then the monarch seized the cup
And threw it in the sea;
“Go! fetch it up!” he cried, “and thou
A knight of mine shall be;
And this my daughter, weeping here,
I'll make her wife to thee!”

XVII.

One glance upon the beauteous maid;
One look of inward pain;
One supplicating prayer to Heaven,
And down he dives again,
To follow where the goblet fell,
Beneath the raging main!

XVIII.

Long—long they gaze with anxious looks;
In vain their eyes explore
The dashing waves beneath the rock,
Where sullen breakers roar;
Alack, alack,—he comes not back!
The boy is seen no more!

THE GOLDSMITH'S DAUGHTER.

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.

I.

Up spoke the Goldsmith proudly
Unto his daughter fair:
“Ah! here are pearls and diamonds,
And rubies rich and rare;
But none with thee, my Helen,
In beauty can compare!”

II.

In came a knight so gayly,
A youth of noble mien;
With “I would have a garland,
The finest e'er was seen:
Spare neither cost nor labor;
'T is for my bridal queen.”

III.

The work is done; and Helen
Cried, “Lucky bride is she
Who wears this splendid garland!
Ah! would he give to me
A simple wreath of roses,
How happy I should be!”

IV.

“'T is well,” the knight made answer,
When he the wreath had seen;
“Now make a ring with diamonds,
And of the purest sheen:
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Spare neither cost nor labor;
'T is for my bridal queen.”

V.

The work is done; and Helen
Cried, “Lucky bride is she
Who wears this blazing circlet!
Ah! would he give to me
One of his golden tresses,
How happy I should be!”

VI.

“'T is well,” the knight made answer;
Then to the maid he cried,
“I fain would have these jewels
On thee, a moment, tried;
That I may judge the surer
If they become my bride.”

VII.

And soon her blushing forehead
Was with the garland graced;
And then upon her finger
The knight, in loving haste,
The ring of gold and diamonds
In merry triumph placed.

VIII.

“Ah! Helen, dearest Helen!”
The happy lover cried;
“For thee they were intended,
My darling and my pride!
And by these jeweled tokens
I take thee for my bride!”

THE GOOD DOG OF BRETTÈ.

A GERMAN LEGEND.

I.

Should you e'er go to Brettè, be sure you don't fail
To look at the dog on the old city gate;
A poodle in marble, with never a tail
Save the piteous one which the people relate
Of a dog who was wont, in the cleverest way,
To carry a basket whereon you might find,
In capital letters as plain as the day,
This plaintive petition, “Remember the Blind!”

II.

And thus through the city he went, it is said,
Soliciting food that his owner might live;
And never himself, till his master was fed,
Touched a morsel of aught that the people might give;
Such a good little dog, of such talents possessed,
In Brettè, be sure, had an excellent name;
And every one hastened to honor his quest,
And treat him with kindness, when ever he came.

III.

But once, on a Friday ('t is ever, they say,
A day when misfortune is aptest to fall),
As the dog went his round, in the usual way,
He came to a butcher who mocked at his call:
“What! flesh on a fast day!—you heathenish cur!
Egad! you shall have it!—a nice bit of meat!”
And, cutting his tail off, cried, “Off with you, sir!
Take that, if you please, for your master to eat!”

IV.

He went to his home, and his basket set down;
So stricken with grief, and so hurt in his pride,
That he never again showed his face in the town,
But, moaning in misery, sickened and died.
And all through the city the story was told
Of the beggar lamenting the loss of his mate;
And all through the city the young and the old—
Men, women, and children—lamented his fate.
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V.

And now you may see, on the old city gate,
His effigy standing in marble today;
Whereof the good people to strangers relate
The piteous story I 've told in my lay;
And the origin, hence, you will readily learn
Of the saying, repeated in country and city,
When kindness receives an ungrateful return,
“He fares—the poor man!—like the poodle of Brettè!”

THIRTEEN AT TABLE.

BÉRANGER.

I.

I spilt the salt, one day,—and, worse,
“Thirteen at table! Sure, some curse
Is in the omens! Such the way
That Death gives warning,—so they say.”
Scarce had I spoken, when a sprite,
Young, handsome, joyous, met my sight;
Whereat I cried, “Friends! be of cheer!
I 've looked on Death, and do not fear!”

II.

A gay, invited guest she seemed;
With fairest flowers her forehead gleamed;
A rainbow arched her head around;
A broken chain was on the ground;
And, sweetly nestling on her breast,
A sleeping baby lay at rest.
Fill up, my friends!—No danger's near;
I 've looked on Death, and do not fear!

III.

“Why tremble?” said the spirit,—“why?
Sister of Hope, Heaven's daughter I!
From weary necks I lift the yoke;
I touch the slave,—his chain is broke;
To man—fallen angel—I restore
The seraph wings he had of yore!”
“O maid!” I cried, “thou'rt welcome here!
I 've looked on Death, and do not fear!”

IV.

“By me released from carnal thrall,
The soul, beyond this earthly ball,
Shall range in yonder azure clime,
In spacious fields and paths sublime;
But here, oppressed by fleshly woes,
Ah! little joy the spirit knows!”
A bumper to that higher sphere!
I 've looked on Death, and do not fear!

V.

Alas! although I bid her stay,
The lovely vision flies away;
In vain we mortals wish to shun
The rest that waits our journey done;
Life is a ship, mere sailors we;
And tide and wind are fair and free.
Thirteen! Who cares? God's smile is here;
I 've looked on Death, and do not fear!

MY BALD HEAD.

(Mes cheveux.)

BÉRANGER.

I.

Good friends, pray listen, if you please,
To Pleasure's licensed preacher;
Hold fast to Liberty and Ease;
So says your reverend teacher.
To laugh at Care, be gay and free,
The precepts I advise:
I'm bald because I'm sage, you see;
So listen to the wise!

II.

Good friends, when Care assails a man,
To vex his soul and body,
I think it much the wisest plan
To drown it—in a toddy!
Nay, not too much!—the glass should be
Of very dainty size:
I'm bald because I'm sage, you see;
So listen to the wise!
226

III.

Good friends, these hints will stand the test,
And should n't be neglected;
But what 's the good of all the rest,
If Beauty is rejected?
Young Love, true Love, must ever be
The richest earthly prize:
I'm bald because I'm sage, you see;
So listen to the wise!

IV.

Good friends, believe me, only so
We save Life's truest treasures;
By just condensing, as they flow,
Youth's evanescent pleasures.
My sermon's done; who lists to me
The power of Fate defies:
I'm bald because I'm sage, you see;
So listen to the wise!

GIRLS! PASS ALONG!

(Passez, jeunes filles.)

BÉRANGER.

I.

Bless me! what a rosy row
Of girls at me their glances throw,
As they gayly come and go,
The light coquettish throng!
Can't the darlings hear me say,
“I have had my youthful day;
Now I put such things away”?
Girls! pass along!

II.

Ah, my Zoë! pray desist!
Sooth, I care not to be kissed;
Ask your mother if I list
To Cupid's siren song.
She—but that is entre nous—
Knows what Love and I can do;
Her advice you'd best pursue,—
Girls! pass along!

III.

Laura! you would hardly guess
How your grandam used to press
Lips of mine—well—I confess—
We did n't think it wrong;
Look! she 's coming! Tempt me not
In gay saloon or shady grot;
A jealous eye the dame has got,—
Girls! pass along!

IV.

You smiling too! you naughty Rose!
I wonder, now, if you suppose
I'm not aware what sort of beaux
Around your beauty throng?
I know the husband-hunting crew,
And all the pretty tricks they do;
I'm old,—but much too young for you!
Girls! pass along!

V.

Away, away! you madcaps!—fly!
Your roguish arts why will you try
To bind a graybeard—such as I—
With Cupid's slender thong?
Yet, like a powder magazine,
My heart from flying sparks I screen,
The sparks that shoot from wanton een—
Girls! pass along!

MUCH LOVE

(Beaucoup d'Amour.)

BÉRANGER.

I.

I know by sages we are told
To reckon riches vile;
I'm not a sage, and so of gold
I'd like a pretty pile.
It is not avarice; Oh no!
For Sophie's sake I'd have it so:
Oh, 't is, be sure,
Beaucoup d'amour;
Only love,—much love!

II.

And I would be a bard divine,
Her praises to prolong;
And link my Sophie's name with mine,
In never-dying song;
Yet if I thus aspire to claim
The poet's laurel wreath of fame,
Oh, 't is, be sure,
Beaucoup d'amour;
Only love,—much love!

III.

And I would be a sceptred king,
That Sophie might be seen
227

With all that royalty could bring
To grace my darling queen.
Ambition? No; for her alone
I 'd wish to sit upon a throne:
Oh, 't is, be sure,
Beaucoup d'amour;
Only love,—much love!

IV.

Yet why, Oh why, would I possess
These shining gifts of Fate?
For love has more of happiness
Than fortune, fame, or state:
So let them go; I'll not repine;
The sweetest treasure still is mine:
Oh, 't is, be sure,
Beaucoup d'amour;
Only love,—much love!

THE PUPPETS.

BÉRANGER.

I.

Our life is but a puppet show;
Men, mere mechanic factors;
And rich and poor,and high and low,
Involuntary actors.
Clowns, courtiers, statesmen, serfs, and kings,
The wicked and the pious,—
We all are worked by secret springs,
And move as others ply us.

II.

And yet, vain man! he deems his course
Is by himself decided;
Because he cannot see the force
By which his mind is guided.
But soon or later he will see
That, like his wooden brothers,
He 's ever been, and still must be,
A puppet, ruled by others.

III.

Just mark the maid of seventeen,
When first the gentle dreamer,
Unconscious what the mood may mean,
Feels love's delicious tremor,—
What secret power, unknown before,
Can thus so sweetly sway her?
She 's but a puppet, nothing more,—
And Cupid is the player!

IV.

Observe yon alderman so grand,
How shrewdly and how neatly
His wife (the young coquette!) has planned
To rule the man completely!
Perhaps a spark of jealous fire
Within the puppet lingers,
I only know the moving wire
Is held in madam's fingers!

V.

And so it is with all mankind,
The womankind befool us;
We're merely puppets, deaf and blind,
And hers the art to rule us;
We laugh and cry and work and play
According to her fancies;
Whate'er the lady's whim may say,
Just so the puppet dances!

THE PRIDE OF BEAUTY.

BÉRANGER.

A gallant youth, whose lady-love possessed
The rarest charms to fire the manly breast,
Was so enamored of the beauteous maid,
That to the powers above—below—he prayed,
Right fervently, to make her beauty less;
Nay, turn it, if they would, to ugliness;
That so it might be shown his constant flame,
Despite the change, would glow for her the same.
This strange request no sooner Satan heard,
Than, quick as thought, he took him at his word,
And, by such arts as only Satan knows,
The deed was done!—away her beauty goes!
And now before her mirror see her stand,
No more “the fairest lady in the land,”
But such a Hecate, such a very fright,
She shrieked aloud, and shuddered at the sight.
And Satan laughed! But still the lover swore
In very sooth he loved her as before!
228

“O faithful soul!” she said; but little less
The woman mourned her vanished loveliness.
“My beauty gone!” the weeping damsel cried;
“To come to this! Ah, would that I had died!”
In short, she wept at such a frantic rate,
The very Fiend took pity on her fate,
And soon was fain her beauty to restore.
And now behold her at her glass once more,
Handsome as Helen when, with radiant charms,
She summoned Paris to her waiting arms:
More beautiful, indeed, than in the hour
She knew the demon's disenchanting power;
For, while the Fiend called back her former face,
He slyly added many a winning grace.
“And now,” she said, “I'm sure you love me more,
Ay, twice as much as e'er you did before.”
“Nay,” said the lover, “as I loved no less
When once I saw your beauty in distress,—
No more, my sweet, this added grace may claim
Than my whole heart,—I love you but the same!”
“Adieu!” she said; “to me 't is very clear
Heaven sends us beauty but to make us dear;
And well I see my love were thrown away
On one so dull that he can coolly say,
‘Who cares—not I!—how beautiful you be?
Handsome or homely, all is one to me!’”

LITTLE PETER THE PORTER.

DE PERTHES.

O, I am Little Peter,
Of faubourg La Pucelle;
A carrier of water,
And messenger, as well;
To gain an honest living
I 've got a clever head;
I seldom fill my pocket,
But then I get my bread!
I have no land nor servants;
All equipage I lack;
These legs, they are my horses;
My funds are on my back.
I take the good that's going,
Quite certain to be fed;
God wills us all a living,
And so I get my bread!
Before some stately building
I place my little stand;
No Swiss you need to parley,
The master is at hand.
Up early in the morning,
And late at night to bed,
I call the day a good one
In which I get my bread!
There goes a man of millions,
But what is that to me?
Who knows but Little Peter
Is happier than he?
The rich man has his troubles,
I often hear it said;
He can but eat his mutton,
And I—I get my bread!
I 've heard my worthy uncle,
Before his sad decease,
Declare no man is wretched
Whose stomach is at peace;
And should these fine days vanish,
And dark ones come instead,
The neighbors love poor Peter,
And I shall get my bread!

THE HEN AND THE HONEYBEE.

FROM THE GERMAN OF GELLET.

A lazy Hen,—the story goes,—
Loquacious, pert, and self-conceited,
Espied a Bee upon a rose,
And thus the busy insect greeted:
“Say, what 's the use of such as you,
(Excuse the freedom of a neighbor!)
Who gad about, and never do
A single act of useful labor?
229

“I 've marked you well for many a day,
In garden blooms and meadow-clover;
Now here, now there, in wanton play;
From morn to night an idle rover.
“While I discreetly bide at home,
A faithful wife, the best of mothers,
About the fields you idly roam,
Without the least regard for others.
“While I lay eggs, or hatch them out,
You seek the flowers most sweet and fragrant,
And, sipping honey, stroll about,
At best a good-for-nothing vagrant!”
“Nay,” said the Bee, “you do me wrong;
I'm useful too; perhaps you doubt it,
Because—though toiling all day long—
I scorn to make a fuss about it!
“While you, with every egg that cheers
Your daily task, must stop and hammer
The news in other people's ears,
Till they are deafened with the clamor:
“Come now with me, and see my hive,
And note how folks may work in quiet;
To useful arts much more alive
Than you with all your cackling riot!”

L'ENVOI.

The Poet, one may plainly see
Who reads this fable at his leisure,
Is represented by the Bee,
Who joins utility to pleasure;
While in this self-conceited Hen
We note the Poet's silly neighbor,
Who thinks the noisy “working-men”
Are doing all the useful labor!
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