Le voleur de voix 3 - Les primma donna immortelles (French Edition)
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Portrait charmant, portrait de mon amie, Gage d'amour, par I'amour obtenu. Lorsque ma main te presse sur mon coeur, Je crois encore la presser elle-meme. Non, tu n'as pas pour moi les memes charmes, Muet temoin de mes tendres soupirs : En retragant nos fugitifs plaisirs, Cruel portrait, tu fais couler mes larmes.
Ze Chateau d'Elvire. ENEATH Elvira's castle wall, A troubadour, whose tuneful strings Are moistened by the tears that fall, Thus of his anguish sadly sings : "When at the tourney thou didst reign, A queen all rivals far above, I felt indifference was vain, And then I first began to love. Thou 'it murmur in thy sweetest tone, And echoes to soft answers move, — The troubadour beneath this stone Loved once, and only once could love.
Mon Habit. This song belongs to the same period as Les Infidelitis de Lisette. Y poor dear coat, be faithful to the end : We both grow old ; ten years have gone, Through which my hand has brushed thee, ancient friend; Not more could Socrates have done. If weakened to a threadbare state, Thou still must suffer many a blow; E'en like thy master brave the storms of fate, My good old coat, we'll never part — oh, no! I still can well remember the first day I wore thee, — for my memory's strong; It was my birthday; and my comrades gay Chanted thy glories in a song.
Thy poverty might make me vain; The friends who loved me long ago, Though thou art poor, will drink to thee again; My good old coat, we'll never part — oh, no! This fine-drawn rent — its cause I ne'er forget, — It beams upon my memory still; I feigned one night to fly from my Lisette, And even now her grasp I feel.
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Ne'er drugged with musk and amber hast tliou been, Like coats by vapid coxcombs worn; Ne'er in an antechamber wert thou seen Insulted by the lordling's scorn. How wistfully all France has eyed The hand that ribbons can bestow! The field-flower is thy button's only pride, — My good old coat, we'll never part — oh, no! We shall not have those foolish days again When our two destinies were one. Those days so fraught with, pleasure and with pain, Those days of mingled rain and sun. I somehow think, my ancient friend, Unto a coatless realm I go; Yet wait awhile, together we will end, — My good old coat, we'll never part — oh, no!
Le Tombeau d'Emma.
Beranger has honoured his memory with a song, and the elegance of his classical compositions has obtained for him the name of the "French TibuUus. My Emma's solitary tomb is here. I saw death fling its sombre, sudden shade Over the sunny morning of tliy days: Thine eyes umvilHng seemed to quench their rays, And slowly could I see their lustre fade. The youthful throng, — that vain and empty crowd, Who on her will Uke worshippers would hang, And hymn her beauty forth in praises loud, — Could see her die without a single pang.
When their dear benefactress they had lost.
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Not e'en the poor, to whom she was so kind, Within their hearts a single sigh could find, With which to silence her complaining ghost. Perfidious friendship, with its smiling face. Now laughs as loudly as it laughed before; The dying image it could soon efface. And for a passing hour its mourning wore.
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Upon this earth thy memory liveth not. Thy tender constancy no more they prize. But from thy tomb they coldly turn their eyes; Thy very name is by the world forgot. Love, love alone is faithful to its grief, Not even Time can teach it to forget; Within the shades of death it seeks relief. And finds incessant sighs to mourn thee yet I come, ere morning breaks, my tears to shed. My pain grows more intense in day's full light, I weep amid the silence of the night. And I am weeping still when night has fled.
Awake, my verse, sole comfort of my woe, And with my tears of sorrow freely flow. Les Souvenirs.
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The name of Francois Auguste, Viscount de Chateaubriand, needs no comment. It is not on his songs that his celebrity depends, but Les Souvenirs deserves a place in every collection of French poetry. My childhood's home — that pleasant spot By me can never be forgot! How happy, sister, then appeared Our country's lot.
Our mother's form remember'st thou? While on her brow Our lips the white locks fondly pressed; Then were we blessed! And, sister, thou remember'st yet The castle, which the stream would wet; And that strange Moorish tower, so old, Thou 'It not forget; How from its bell the deep sound rolled, And day foretold. Remember'st thou the lake's calm blue? The swallow brushed it as he flew — How with the reeds the breezes played; The evening hue With which the waters bright were made, In gold arrayed. Le Rhe de Marie. Bom And Paris you would see, While she weeps here!
Perchance, you may, my poor Marie, Your mother and your God forget. Upon her mother's brow She prints a kiss. But even while she sleeps, The watchful mother still she hears, Who by her bedside weeps. She leaves her native home With weeping eyes, To Paris she has come, — - Oh, bright surprise! There all appears to trace In lines of gold her future lot, And dazzling dreams efface The image of her humble cot.
Heaven, when two years have past, Bids her return, To her Savoy at last She comes — to mourn. Le Bouton de Rose. Princesse dk Salm.
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Bud of the rose! Happier than I thou mlt be!
On the bosom of Rose Thou goest to die, happy flower! If I were a bud of the rose. With joy I should die in an hour On the bosom of Rose. The bosom of Rose, Thy rival, sweet rosebud, may prove; Fret not, pretty bud of the rose, Nought equals in beauty or love The bosom of Rose.
Bud of the rose. My Rose coming I see! I implore you, make me A bud of the rose! BouTON de rose! Au sein de Rose, Heureux bouton tu vas mourir! Moi, si j'etais bouton de rose, Je ne mourrais que de plaisir — Au sein de Rose. Au sein de Rose, Tu pourras trouver un rival; Ne joute pas, bouton de rose Car en beaute rien n'est egal, Au sein de Rose.