Chapter I: HAVE watched her at the window

Through long days of snow and wind,
Till I learnt to love the shadow
That would flit across her blind.
’Twixt the lime-tree’s leafless branches
In the dusk my eyes I’d strain:
Now the boughs are thick with foliage,—
Tiresome Spring! you’ve come again!

Now, behind that screen of verdure
Is my angel lost to view;
And no longer for the robins
Will her white hands bread-crumbs strew.
Never in the frosts of winter,
Did those robins beg in vain;
Now, alas! the snow has melted,—
Tiresome Spring! you’ve come again!

’Tis kind winter that I wish for;—
How I long to hear the hail
Rattling on deserted pavements,
Dancing in the stormy gale!
For I then could see her windows,
Watch my darling through each pane
Now the lime-trees are in blossom,—
Tiresome Spring! you’ve come again!
_Béranger._

ROSETTE

YES! I know you’re very fair;
And the rose-bloom of your cheek,
And the gold-crown of your hair,
Seem of tender love to speak.
But to me they speak in vain,
I am growing old, my pet—
Ah, if I could love you now
As I used to love Rosette!

In your carriage every day
I can see you bow and smile;
Lovers your least word obey,
Mistress you of every wile.
She was poor, and went on foot,
Badly drest, you know,—and yet,—
Ah! if I could love you now
As I used to love Rosette!

You are clever, and well known
For your wit so quick and free;—
Now, Rosette, I blush to own,
Scarcely knew her A B C;
But she had a potent charm
In my youth:—ah, vain regret!
If I could but love you now
As I used to love Rosette!
_Béranger._

SHE IS SO PRETTY

SHE is so pretty, the girl I love,
Her eyes are tender and deep and blue
As the summer night in the skies above,
As violets seen through a mist of dew.
How can I hope, then, her heart to gain?
She is so pretty, and I am so plain!

She is so pretty, so fair to see!
Scarcely she’s counted her nineteenth spring,
Fresh, and blooming, and young,—ah me!
Why do I thus her praises sing?
Surely from me ’tis a senseless strain,
She is so pretty, and I am so plain!

She is so pretty, so sweet and dear,
There’s many a lover who loves her well;
I may not hope, I can only fear,
Yet shall I venture my love to tell?...
Ah! I have pleaded, and not in vain—
Though she’s so pretty, and I am so plain.
_Béranger._

RONDEAU

JENNY kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in:
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I’m growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me!
_Leigh Hunt._

STOLEN FRUIT

WE the fairies, blithe and antic,
Of dimensions not gigantic,
Though the moonshine mostly keep us,
Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.

Stolen sweets are always sweeter,
Stolen kisses much completer,
Stolen looks are nice in chapels,
Stolen, stolen be your apples.

When to bed the world is bobbing,
Then’s the time for orchard-robbing;
Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling
Were it not for stealing, stealing.
_Leigh Hunt_ (_from the Italian_).

LOVE AND AGE