Who, in the winter's night, When the cowld blast did bite, Came to my cabin door, And on my earthen floor Who, on the marriage day, Made the poor cabin gay, And did both laugh and sing, Who, as friend only met, Never did flout me yet, Soggarth Aroon? And when my hearth was dim Och! you, and only you, Soggarth Aroon! And for this I was true to you, In love they'll never shake When for ould Ireland's sake We a true part did take, THE IRISH MAIDEN'S SONG. You know it now it is betrayed This moment in mine eye, And in my young cheeks' crimson shade, And in my whispered sigh. THÉODORE DE BANVILLE. BANVILLE, THÉODORE DE, a French poet, novelist, and dramatist, was born at Moulins, March 14, 1823, and died at Paris, March 13, 1891. He was the son of an officer in the French army. He began to write poetry at the age of nineteen, and continued for fifty years to be active both in prose and in verse. As a poet, he displayed a remarkable mastery of rhyme and rhythm; and it is in the exhibition of these that he chiefly excelled. Under his auspices the graceful metrical systems of the pléiade, as well as the older forms of the mediæval poets, such as ballades, rondeaus, and triolets, were once more brought into fashion. Saintsbury, speaking of De Banville's writings, says: "His serious poetry is full of poetical language and sentiment; his lighter verse is charming; his prose is excellent; and he was no mean hand at drama." The first volume of De Banville, "Les Caryatides," published in 1841, gave him at once a standing as a poet among the younger members of the romantic school; but the first work which attracted general attention, and which, it has been said, awakened expectations that were not fully realized in his subsequent writings, was his "Odes Funambulesques," issued in 1857. His principal drama is "Gringoire ;" and other notable works are "Stalactites," "Odelettes," "Les Exilés, "Occidentales," and a volume of recollections entitled "Mes Souvenirs." BALLADE DES PENDUS. (From "Gringoire ; " translated by Andrew Lang.) Are clusters such as no man knows, These wretched folk wave overhead, With such strange thoughts as none may say; A moment still, then sudden sped, They swing in a ring and waste away. The morning smites them with her ray; This is King Louis' orchard close! All hanged and dead, they 've summoned Now down the blue sky flames the day; Of obscene ravens gathers and goes, ENVOI. Prince, where leaves murmur of the May, The bodies of men dead are they! This is King Louis' orchard close! THE BALLADIST. (From Shirley's "Adaptation of Gringoire.") "AYE, 't is a habit, this making of verse; an idle habit and a waste of precious sheepskin. 'Tis but the arranging of sister sounds until they make a jingled repetition; like the silver bells upon a distant sledge. And the world despises the poet; despises him as much, perchance, as he despises it. Yet has he no choice; for the gift is of God, and the poet's call is from within. You, Jeanette, have never felt the bitter sweetness of suffering the pangs of others! You have never said to yourself, when full of joy and gladness, 'At this very moment there are thousands of my fellow-creatures weeping; thousands enduring all the pains that harsh fate can send them; thousands beholding their most cherished children die inch by inch, and feeling a portion of their very hearts torn from their living breasts.' These thoughts have never come to you.” "Indeed they have, Gringoire; and when I have heard how many are bowed down by pain and oppression, I have wished to be a man that I might fight with might and main in their defence." "Then you have a heart! Hear me tell you that there are on this earth thousands, aye, millions of our fellow-creatures born to live in misery and doomed to die in despair." "Alas!" "There are white slaves chained to many a gilded chariot, who work and wear out their lives in loathsome labor, that unworthy masters may loll on well-stuffed cushions and dream how much more precious is their dainty flesh than that of all their serfs. What does the poet amid these scenes of sadness? The pains of others touch his heart; the tears of others bathe his cheek; the sobs of others choke his voice, and the wrongs of others cry aloud for justice through his throat and pen! No bribe can silence; no prison stifle his uplifted voice. He enters palaces and bids their owners pause; he creeps into cots and gives their tenants hope; he tilts at luxury and waste; and in tones of warning cries : "Lords and lordlings, titled tyrants, Hear the People's poet tell you, Poverty's a crime to-day! "Hear the truth that word unwelcome - Keep the hungry mob at bay; Let them hide their famished faces; Poverty 's a crime to-day! "Common people are your cattle, Born to labor and obey; Spurn them, work them, tax them, kill them; Poverty's a crime to-day! "What if they be bowed with sorrow, "If their lives be long December, Yours is just as much a May; Loudly laugh, 't will drown their curses; Poverty's a crime to-day! "Heed not starving men and women, Fallen lifeless in the fray; Trample on their breathless bodies; Poverty's a crime to-day! |