Chapter C: H. Waring

IN THE ORCHARD.

A Trio of Triolets.

O the apples rosy-red!
O the gnarled trunks grey and brown,
Heavy-branchèd overhead!
O the apples rosy-red!
O the merry laughter sped,
As the fruit is showered down!
O the apples rosy-red!
O the gnarled trunks grey and brown!

O the blushes rosy-red!
O the loving autumn breeze!
O the words so softly said!
O the blushes rosy-red,
While old doubts and fears lie dead,
Buried 'neath the apple-trees!
O the blushes rosy-red!
O the loving autumn breeze!

O the years so swiftly fled!
O twin hearts that beat as one,
With a love time-strengthenèd!
O the years so swiftly fled!
O the apples rosy-red,
That still ripen in the sun!
O the years so swiftly fled!
O twin hearts that beat as one!

GEORGE WEATHERLY.

#The Villanelle, Virelai, and Virelai Nouveau.#

_VILLANELLE._

_J'ay perdu ma tourterelle;_
_Est-ce-point elle que i'oy?_[10]
_Je veux aller après elle._

_Tu regrettes ta femelle;_
_Hélas! aussy fay-je moy:_
_J'ay perdu ma tourterelle._

_Si ton amour est fidèle,_
_Aussy est ferme ma foy;_
_Je veux aller après elle._

_Ta plainte se renouvelle?_
_Toujours plaindre je me doy:_
_J'ay perdu ma tourterelle._

_En ne voyant plus la belle_
_Plus rien de beau je ne voy:_
_Je veux aller après elle._

_Mort, que tant de fois j'appelle_
_Prens ce qui se donne à toy:_
_J'ai perdu ma tourterelle,_
_Je veux aller après elle._

--JEAN PASSERAT.

[10] _J'entends._

ROSES.

There are roses white, there are roses red,
Shyly rosy, tenderly white;-
Which shall I choose to wreathe my head?

Which shall I cull from the garden-bed
To greet my love on this very night?
There are roses white, there are roses red.

The red should say what I would have said;
Ah! how they blush in the evening light!
Which shall I choose to wreathe my head?

The white are pale as the snow new-spread,
Pure as young eyes and half as bright;
There are roses white, there are roses red.

Roses white, from the heaven dew-fed,
Roses red for a passion's plight;
Which shall I choose to wreathe my head?

Summer twilight is almost fled,
Say, dear love! have I chosen right?
There are roses white, there are roses red,
All twined together to wreathe my head.