Arise, ye landscapes full of charms,
Arise, ye pictures of delight!
Ye brooks, that water in your flight
The flowers and harvests of our farms!

You I perceive, ye meadows green,

Where the Garonne the lowland fills,
Not far from that long chain of hills,
With intermingled vales between.

Yon wreath of smoke, that mounts so high,
Methinks from my own hearth must come;
With speed, to that beloved home,
Fly, ye too lazy coursers, fly!

And bear me thither, where the soul
In quiet may itself possess,

Where all things soothe the mind's dis-
tress,

Where all things teach me and console.

WILL EVER THE DEAR DAYS COME BACK AGAIN?

WILL ever the dear days come back again, Those days of June, when lilacs were in bloom,

And bluebirds sang their sonnets in the gloom

Of leaves that roofed them in from sun or rain?

I know not; but a presence will remain Forever and forever in this room, Formless, diffused in air; like a perfume,—

A phantom of the heart, and not the brain. Delicious days! when every spoken word

Was like a footfall nearer and more near, And a mysterious knocking at the gate Of the heart's secret places, and we heard

In the sweet tumult of delight and fear A voice that whispered, "Open, I cannot wait!"

AT LA CHAUDEAU

BY XAVIER MARMIER

AT La Chaudeau, 't is long since then :
I was young, my years twice ten;
All things smiled on the happy boy,
Dreams of love and songs of joy,
Azure of heaven and wave below,
At La Chaudeau.

THE WINE OF JURANÇON

BY CHARLES CORAN

LITTLE Sweet wine of Jurançon,
You are dear to my memory still!
With mine host and his merry song,
Under the rose-tree I drank my fill.

Twenty years after, passing that way,
Under the trellis I found again
Mine host, still sitting these au frais,
And singing still the same refrain.

The Jurançon, so fresh and bold,

Treats me as one it used to know;

Souvenirs of the days of old
Already from the bottle flow.

With glass in hand our glances met;
We pledge, we drink. How sour it is!
Never Argenteuil piquette

Was to my palate sour as this!

And yet the vintage was good, in sooth;
The self-same juice, the self-same cask!
It was you, O gayety of my youth,
That failed in the autumnal flask!

FRIAR LUBIN

(LE FRÈRE LUBIN)

BY CLEMENT MAROT

Mr. Longfellow gave this lyric in his paper on Origin and Progress of the French Language, and afterward printed it in The Poets and Poetry of Europe. In one of the scenes of Michael Angelo, which he appears to have set aside when revising that dramatic poem, he makes Rabelais sing it. The envoy which closes the poem here is omitted in the scene.

To gallop off to town post-haste,

So oft, the times I cannot tell ;
To do vile deed, nor feel disgraced,
Friar Lubin will do it well.
But a sober life to lead,

To honor virtue, and pursue it,
That's a pious, Christian deed, -
Friar Lubin cannot do it.

To mingle, with a knowing smile, The goods of others with his own, And leave you without cross or pile, Friar Lubin stands alone.

Alas! I shall have passed close by her unperceived,

Forever at her side, and yet forever lonely, I shall unto the end have made life's journey, only

Daring to ask for naught, and having naught received.

For her, though God has made her gentle and endearing,

She will go on her way distraught and without hearing

These murmurings of love that round her steps ascend,

Piously faithful still unto her austere duty, Will say, when she shall read these lines full of her beauty,

"Who can this woman be?" and will not comprehend.

FROM THE ITALIAN

THE CELESTIAL PILOT

PURGATORIO II. 13-51.

Mr. Longfellow's biographer, in speaking of the poet's methods with his college class when engaged upon the study of Dante, says: "The Professor read the book into English to his class, with a running commentary and illustration. For his purpose he had bound an in

terleaved copy of the author; the blank pages of which

he gradually filled with notes and with translations of noteworthy passages. In this way were written those passages from the Divina Commedia which were first printed in the Voices of the Night."

AND now, behold! as at the approach of morning,

Through the gross vapors, Mars grows fiery red

Down in the west upon the ocean floor, Appeared to me, may I again behold

it!

A light along the sea, so swiftly coming,

Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled. And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little

Mine eyes, that I might question my conductor,

Again I saw it brighter grown and larger. Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared

I knew not what of white, and underneath,

Little by little, there came forth another. My master vet had uttered not a word,

Crossing the level country slowly, slowly, Over the soil, that everywhere breathed fragrance.

A gently-breathing air, that no mutation Had in itself, smote me upon the forehead

No heavier blow than of a pleasant breeze, Whereat the tremulous branches readily Did all of them bow downward towards that side

Where its first shadow casts the Holy Mountain;

Yet not from their upright direction bent

So that the little birds upon their tops Should cease the practice of their tune

ful art;

But, with full-throated joy, the hours of prime

Singing received they in the midst of foliage

That made monotonous burden to their rhymes,

Even as from branch to branch it gathering swells,

Through the pine forests on the shore of Chiassi,

When Eolus unlooses the Sirocco. Already my slow steps had led me on Into the ancient wood so far, that I Could see no more the place where I had entered.

And lo! my further course cut off a river, Which, tow'rds the left hand, with its

little waves,

Bent down the grass, that on its margin

Wearing again the garments of the flesh, So, upon that celestial chariot,

A hundred rose ad vocem tanti senis, Ministers and messengers of life eternal.

They all were saying, "Benedictus qui venis,"

And scattering flowers above and round about,

“Manibus o date lilia plenis.”

Oft have I seen, at the approach of day, The orient sky all stained with roseate hues,

And the other heaven with light serene adorned,

And the sun's face uprising, overshadowed,

So that, by temperate influence of va pors,

The eye sustained his aspect for long

while;

Thus in the bosom of a cloud of flowers, Which from those hands angelie were thrown up,

And down descended inside and with

out,

With crown of olive o'er a snow- white veil,

Appeared a lady, under a green mantle, Vested in colors of the living flame.

Even as the snow, among the living raf

ters

That every marble block doth not confine
Within itself; and only its design
The hand that follows intellect can
achieve.

The ill I flee, the good that I believe,
In thee, fair lady, lofty and divine,
Thus hidden lie; and so that death be
mine,

Art, of desired success, doth me bereave. Love is not guilty, then, nor thy fair face, Nor fortune, cruelty, nor great disdain, Of my disgrace, nor chance nor destiny, If in thy heart both death and love find place

At the same time, and if my humble brain,

Burning, can nothing draw but death from thee.