By Mons. Fontenelle

Ma petite ame, ma mignonne,
Tu t'en vas donc, má fille, et Dieu scache ou tu vas:
Tu pars seulette, nuë, et tremblotante, helas!
Que deviendra ton humeur folichonne?
Que deviendront tant de jolis ébats?

IMITATED.

Poor, little, pretty, fluttering thing,
Must we no longer live together?
And dost thou prune thy trembling wing,
To take thy flight thou know'st not whither?
Thy hum'rous vein, thy pleasing folly,
Lies all neglected, all forgot,
And pensive, wavering melancholy,
Thou dread'st, and hop'st, thou know'st not what.

Matthew Prior

Matthew Prior was an English poet and diplomat. He is known for his extensive contributions to poetry during the late 17th and early 18th centuries. Prior's works often blend sharp wit, classical allusions, and a mastery of form. Apart from poetry, he was actively involved in politics and served as a diplomat for the English government. His poetry reflects his broad knowledge and varied experiences.

Matthew Prior

Cupid Turned Stroller. - From Anacreon

Matthew Prior, Simple Poetry

On The Same Person (Who Wrote Ill, And Spake Worse, Against Me)

Matthew Prior, Simple Poetry

To The Lady Dursley

Matthew Prior, Simple Poetry

Songs Set To Music: 5. Set By Mr. De Fesch

Matthew Prior, Simple Poetry

English

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The Dying Adrian To His Soul

Poor, little, pretty, fluttering thing,
Must we no longer live together?
And dost thou prune thy trembling wing,
To take thy flight thou know'st not whither?
Thy humorous vein, thy pleasing folly,
Lies all neglected, all forgot:
And pensive, wavering, melancholy,
Thou dread'st and hop'st thou know'st not what.

Matthew Prior

To A Sick Child During The Siege Of Paris.

("Si vous continuez toute pâle.")

[November, 1870.]


If you continue thus so wan and white;
    If I, one day, behold
You pass from out our dull air to the light,
    You, infant - I, so old:
If I the thread of our two lives must see
    Thus blent to human view,
I who would fain know death was near to me,
    And far away for you;
If your small hands remain such fragile things;
    If, in your cradle stirred,
You have the mien of waiting there for wings,
    Like to some new-fledged bird;
Not rooted to our earth you seem to be.
    If still, beneath the skies,
You turn, O Jeanne, on our mystery
    Soft, discontented eyes!
If I behold you, gay and strong no more;
    If you mope sadly thus;
If you behind you have no...

Victor-Marie Hugo

Sweet Sister.

("Vous qui ne savez pas combien l'enfance est belle.")


Sweet sister, if you knew, like me,
The charms of guileless infancy,
No more you'd envy riper years,
Or smiles, more bitter than your tears.

But childhood passes in an hour,
As perfume from a faded flower;
The joyous voice of early glee
Flies, like the Halcyon, o'er the sea.

Enjoy your morn of early Spring;
Soon time maturer thoughts must bring;
Those hours, like flowers that interclimb,
Should not be withered ere their time.

Too soon you'll weep, as we do now,
O'er faithless friend, or broken vow,
And hopeless sorrows, which our pride
In pleasure's whirl would vainly hide.

Laugh on! unconscious of thy doom,
All innocence and opening bloom;
Laugh on...

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Chanson. - And Imitation

Que fais tu bergere dans ce beau verger
Tu ne songe gueres a me soulager?
Tu connois ma flamme, tu vois ma langueur,
Prens belle inhumaine pitie de mon coeur.

Dequoy te plains tu malheureux berger?
Que n'ay je point fait pour te soulager!
J'ay quitte la plaine, mon troupeau, mon chien,
Prend on tat de peine quand on n'aime rien.

Imitation

Why thus from the plain does my sheperdess rove,
Forsaking her swain and neglecting his love?
You have heard all my grief, you see how I die,
Oh! give some relief to the swain whom you fly.

How can you complain, or what am I to say,
Since my dog lies unfed, and my sheep run astray?
Need I tell what I mean that I languish alone!
When I leave all the plain you may guess 'tis for one.

Matthew Prior

Soeur Monique

A RONDEAU BY COUPERIN

Quiet form of silent nun,
What has given you to my inward eyes?
What has marked you, unknown one,
In the throngs of centuries
That mine ears do listen through?
This old master's melody
That expresses you,
This admired simplicity,
Tender, with a serious wit,
And two words, the name of it,
'Soeur Monique.'

And if sad the music is,
It is sad with mysteries
Of a small immortal thing
That the passing ages sing,--
Simple music making mirth
Of the dying and the birth
Of the people of the earth.

No, not sad; we are beguiled,
Sad with living as we are;
Ours the sorrow, outpouring
Sad self on a selfless thing,
As our eyes and hearts are mild
With our sympathy for Spring,
With a pity swe...

Alice Christiana Thompson Meynell

L'Année Terrible.

TO LITTLE JEANNE.

("Vous eûtes donc hier un an.")

[September, 1870.]


You've lived a year, then, yesterday, sweet child,
Prattling thus happily! So fledglings wild,
New-hatched in warmer nest 'neath sheltering bough,
Chirp merrily to feel their feathers grow.
Your mouth's a rose, Jeanne! In these volumes grand
Whose pictures please you - while I trembling stand
To see their big leaves tattered by your hand -
Are noble lines; but nothing half your worth,
When all your tiny frame rustles with mirth
To welcome me. No work of author wise
Can match the thought half springing to your eyes,
And your dim reveries, unfettered, strange,
Regarding man with all the boundless range
Of angel innocence. Methinks, 'tis clear
That God's not f...

Victor-Marie Hugo