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Draw It Mild Read Poem

(LES PETITS COUPS)
Let's learn to temper our desires,
Not harshly to constrain;
And since excess makes pleasure less,
Why, so much more refrain.

Small table--cozy corner--here
We well may be beguiled;
Our worthy host old wine can boast:
Drink, drink--but draw it mild!
He who would many an evil shun
Will find my plan the best--
To trim the sail as shifts the gale,
And half-seas over rest.

Enjoyment is an art--disgust
Is bred of joy run wild;
Too deep a drain upsets the brain:
Drink, drink--but draw it mild!
Our indigence--let's cheer it up;
'Tis nonsense to repine;
To give to Hope the fullest scope
Needs but one draught of wine.

And oh! be temperate, to enjoy,
Ye on whom Fate hath smiled;
If deep the bowl, your thirst control:
Drink, drink--but draw it mild!
What, Phyllis, dost thou fear?

at this
My lesson dost thou scoff?

Or would'st thou say, light draughts betray
The toper falling off?

Keen taste, eyes keen--whate'er be seen
Of joy in thine, fair child,
Love's philtre use, but don't abuse:
Drink, drink--but draw it mild!
Yes, without hurrying, let us roam
From feast to feast of gladness;
And reach old age, if not quite sage,
With method in our madness!
Our health is sound, good wines abound;
Friends, these are riches piled.

To use with thrift the twofold gift:
Drink, drink--but draw it mild!

Fifty Years Read Poem

Wherefore these flowers?

floral applause?

Ah, no, these blossoms came to say
That I am growing old, because
I number fifty years to-day.

O rapid, ever-fleeting day!
O moments lost, I know not how!
O wrinkled cheek and hair grown gray!
Alas, for I am fifty now!
Sad age, when we pursue no more
Fruit dies upon the withering tree:
Hark! some one rapped upon my door.

Nay, open not.

'Tis not for me,
Or else the doctor calls.

Not yet
Must I expect his studious bow.

Once I'd have called, "Come in, Lizzette"
Alas, for I am fifty now!
In age what aches and pains abound:
The torturing gout racks us awhile;
Blindness, a prison dark, profound;
Or deafness that provokes a smile.

Then Reason's lamp grows faint and dim
With flickering ray.

Children, allow
Old Age the honor due to him
Alas, for I am fifty now!
Ah, heaven! the voice of Death I know,
Who rubs his hands in joyous mood;
The sexton knocks and I must go, —
Farewell, my friends the human brood!
Below are famine, plague, and strife;
Above, new heavens my soul endow:
Since God remains, begin, new life!
Alas, for I am fifty now!
But no, 'tis you, sweetheart, whose youth,
Tempting my soul with dainty ways,
Shall hide from it the somber truth,
This incubus of evil days.

Springtime is yours, and flowers; come then,
Scatter your roses on my brow,
And let me dream of youth again —
Alas, for I am fifty now!
(Translated by Walter Learned.

)

Fortune Read Poem

Rap! rap!--Is that my lass--
Rap! rap!--is rapping there?

It is Fortune.

Let her pass!
I'll not open the door to her.

Rap! rap!--
All of my friends are making gay
My little room, with lips wine-wet:
We only wait for you, Lisette!
Fortune! you may go your way.

Rap! rap!--
If we might credit half her boast,
What wonders gold has in its gift!
Well, we have twenty bottles left
And still some credit with our host.

Rap! rap!--
Her pearls, and rubies too, she quotes,
And mantles more than sumptuous:
Lord! but the purple's naught to us,--
We're just now taking off our coats.

Rap! rap!--
She treats us as the rawest youths,
With talk of genius and of fame:
Thank calumny, alas, for shame!
Our faith is spoiled in laurel growths.

Rap! rap!--
Far from our pleasures, we care not
Her highest heavens to attain;
She fills her big balloons in vain
Till we have swamped our little boat.

Rap! rap!--
Yet all our neighbors crowd to be
Within her ring of promises,
Ah! surely, friends! our mistresses
Will cheat us more agreeably.

Rap! rap!--

From 'The Gipsies' Read Poem

(LES BOHEMIENS)
To see is to have.

Come, hurry anew!
Life on the wing
Is a rapturous thing.

To see is to have.

Come, hurry anew!
For to see the world is to conquer it too.

*       *       *       *       *
So naught do we own, from pride left free,
From statutes vain,
From heavy chain;
So naught do we own, from pride left free,--
Cradle nor house nor coffin have we.

But credit our jollity none the less,
Noble or priest, or
Servant or master;
But credit our jollity none the less.

--
Liberty always means happiness.

My Tomb Read Poem

(MON TOMBEAU)
What! whilst I'm well, beforehand you design,
At vast expense, for me to build a shrine?

Friends, 'tis absurd! to no such outlay go;
Leave to the great the pomp and pride of woe.

Take what for marble or for brass would pay--
For a dead beggar garb by far too gay--
And buy life-stirring wine on my behalf:
The money for my tomb right gayly let us quaff!
A mausoleum worthy of my thanks
At least would cost you twenty thousand francs:
Come, for six months, rich vale and balmy sky,
As gay recluses, be it ours to try.

Concerts and balls, where Beauty's self invites,
Shall furnish us our castle of delights;
I'll run the risk of finding life too sweet:
The money for my tomb right gayly let us eat!
But old I grow, and Lizzy's youthful yet:
Costly attire, then, she expects to get;
For to long fast a show of wealth resigns--
Bear witness Longchamps, where all Paris shines!
You to my fair one something surely owe;
A Cashmere shawl she's looking for, I know:
'Twere well for life on such a faithful breast
The money for my tomb right gayly to invest!
No box of state, good friends, would I engage,
For mine own use, where spectres tread the stage:
What poor wan man with haggard eyes is this?

Soon must he die--ah, let him taste of bliss!
The veteran first should the raised curtain see--
There in the pit to keep a place for me,
(Tired of his wallet, long he cannot live)--
The money for my tomb to him let's gayly give!
What doth it boot me, that some learned eye
May spell my name on gravestone, by and by?

As to the flowers they promise for my bier,
I'd rather, living, scent their perfume here.

And thou, posterity!--that ne'er mayst be--
Waste not thy torch in seeking signs of me!
Like a wise man, I deemed that I was bound
The money for my tomb to scatter gayly round!

The Gad-Fly Read Poem

(LA MOUCHE)
In the midst of our laughter and singing,
'Mid the clink of our glasses so gay,
What gad-fly is over us winging,
That returns when we drive him away?

'Tis some god.

Yes, I have a suspicion
Of our happiness jealous, he's come:
Let us drive him away to perdition,
That he bore us no more with his hum.

Transformed to a gad-fly unseemly,
I am certain that we must have here
Old Reason, the grumbler, extremely
Annoyed by our joy and our cheer.

He tells us in tones of monition
Of the clouds and the tempests to come:
Let us drive him away to perdition,
That he bore us no more with his hum.

It is Reason who comes to me, quaffing,
And says, "It is time to retire:
At your age one stops drinking and laughing,
Stops loving, nor sings with such fire;"--
An alarm that sounds ever its mission
When the sweetest of flames overcome:
Let us drive him away to perdition,
That he bore us no more with his hum.

It is Reason! Look out there for Lizzie!
His dart is a menace alway.

He has touched her, she swoons--she is dizzy:
Come, Cupid, and drive him away.

Pursue him; compel his submission,
Until under your strokes he succumb.

Let us drive him away to perdition,
That he bore us no more with his hum.

Hurrah, Victory! See, he is drowning
In the wine that Lizzetta has poured.

Come, the head of Joy let us be crowning,
That again he may reign at our board.

He was threatened just now with dismission,
And a fly made us all rather glum:
But we've sent him away to perdition;
He will bore us no more with his hum.

The Garret Read Poem

With pensive eyes the little room I view,
Where in my youth I weathered it so long,
With a wild mistress, a stanch friend or two,
And a light heart still breaking into song;
Making a mock of life, and all its cares,
Rich in the glory of my rising sun:
Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

Yes; 'tis a garret--let him know't who will---
There was my bed--full hard it was and small;
My table there--and I decipher still
Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall.

Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away,
Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun:
For you I pawned my watch how many a day,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one!
And see my little Jessy, first of all;
She comes with pouting lips and sparkling eyes:
Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawl
Across the narrow casement, curtain-wise:
Now by the bed her petticoat glides down,
And when did women look the worse in none?

I have heard since who paid for many a gown,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

One jolly evening, when my friends and I
Made happy music with our songs and cheers,
A shout of triumph mounted up thus high,
And distant cannon opened on our ears;
We rise,--we join in the triumphant strain,--
Napoleon conquers--Austerlitz is won--
Tyrants shall never tread us down again,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

Let us begone--the place is sad and strange--
How far, far off, these happy times appear!
All that I have to live I'd gladly change
For one such month as I have wasted here--
To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power,
From founts of hope that never will outrun,
And drink all life's quintessence in an hour:
Give me the days when I was twenty-one.

The King Of Yvetot Read Poem

There was a king of Yvetot,
Of whom renown hath little said,
Who let all thoughts of glory go,
And dawdled half his days a-bed;
And every night, as night came round,
By Jenny with a nightcap crowned,
Slept very sound:
Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That's the kind of king for me.

And every day it came to pass,
That four lusty meals made he;
And step by step, upon an ass,
Rode abroad, his realms to see;
And wherever he did stir,
What think you was his escort, sir?

Why, an old cur.

Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That's the kind of king for me.

If e'er he went into excess,
'Twas from a somewhat lively thirst;
But he who would his subjects bless,
Odd's fish!--must wet his whistle first;
And so from every cask they got,
Our king did to himself allot
At least a pot.

Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That's the kind of king for me.

To all the ladies of the land
A courteous king, and kind, was he--
The reason why, you'll understand,
They named him Pater Patriae.

Each year he called his fighting men,
And marched a league from home, and then
Marched back again.

Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That's the kind of king for me.

Neither by force nor false pretense,
He sought to make his kingdom great,
And made (O princes, learn from hence)
"Live and let live" his rule of state.

'Twas only when he came to die,
That his people who stood by
Were known to cry.

Sing ho, ho, ho! and he, he, he!
That's the kind of king for me.

The portrait of this best of kings
Is extant still, upon a sign
That on a village tavern swings,
Famed in the country for good wine.

The people in their Sunday trim,
Filling their glasses to the brim,
Look up to him,
Singing "ha, ha, ha!" and "he, he, he!
That's the sort of king for me.

"

The Old Tramp Read Poem

(LE VIEUX VAGABOND)
Here in this gutter let me die:
Weary and sick and old, I've done.

"He's drunk," will say the passers-by:
All right, I want no pity--none.

I see the heads that turn away,
While others glance and toss me sous:
"Off to your junket! go!" I say:
Old tramp,--to die I need no help from you.

Yes, of old age I'm dying now:
Of hunger people never die.

I hoped some almshouse might allow
A shelter when my end was nigh;
But all retreats are overflowed,
Such crowds are suffering and forlorn.

My nurse, alas! has been the road:
Old tramp,--here let me die where I was born.

When young, it used to be my prayer
To craftsmen, "Let me learn your trade.

"
"Clear out--we've got no work to spare;
Go beg," was all reply they made.

You rich, who bade me work, I've fed
With relish on the bones you threw;
Made of your straw an easy bed:
Old tramp,--I have no curse to vent on you.

Poor wretch, I had the choice to steal;
But no, I'd rather beg my bread.

At most I thieved a wayside meal
Of apples ripening overhead.

Yet twenty times have I been thrown
In prison--'twas the King's decree;
Robbed of the only thing I own:
Old tramp,--at least the sun belongs to me.

The poor man--is a country his?

What are to me your corn and wine,
Your glory and your industries,
Your orators?

They are not mine.

And when a foreign foe waxed fat
Within your undefended walls,
I shed my tears, poor fool, at that:
Old tramp,--his hand was open to my calls.

Why, like the hateful bug you kill,
Did you not crush me when you could?

Or better, teach me ways and skill
To labor for the common good?

The ugly grub an ant may end,
If sheltered from the cold and fed.

You might have had me for a friend:
Old tramp,--I die your enemy instead.

Another translation:
THE OLD VAGABOND.

Here in the ditch my bones I'll lay;
Weak, wearied, old, the world I leave.

"He's drunk," the passing crowd will say
'T is well, for none will need to grieve.

Some turn their scornful heads away,
Some fling an alms in hurrying by;--
Haste,--'t is the village holyday!
The aged beggar needs no help to die.

Yes! here, alone, of sheer old age
I die; for hunger slays not all.

I hoped my misery's closing page
To fold within some hospital;
But crowded thick is each retreat,
Such numbers now in misery lie.

Alas! my cradle was the street!
As he was born the aged wretch must die.

In youth, of workmen, o'er and o'er,
I've asked, "Instruct me in your trade.

"
"Begone!--our business is not more
Than keeps ourselves,--go, beg!" they said.

Ye rich, who bade me toil for bread,
Of bones your tables gave me store,
Your straw has often made my bed;--
In death I lay no curses at your door.

Thus poor, I might have turned to theft;--
No!--better still for alms to pray!
At most, I've plucked some apple, left
To ripen near the public way,
Yet weeks and weeks, in dungeons laid
In the king's name, they let me pine;
They stole the only wealth I had,--
Though poor and old, the sun, at least, was mine.

What country has the poor to claim?

What boots to me your corn and wine,
Your busy toil, your vaunted fame,
The senate where your speakers shine?

Once, when your homes, by war o'erswept,
Saw strangers battening on your land,
Like any puling fool, I wept!
The aged wretch was nourished by their hand.

Mankind! why trod you not the worm,
The noxious thing, beneath your heel?

Ah! had you taught me to perform
Due labor for the common weal!
Then, sheltered from the adverse wind,
The worm and ant had learned to grow;
Ay,--then I might have loved my kind;--
The aged beggar dies your bitter foe!

The People's Reminiscences Read Poem

(LES SOUVENIRS DU PEUPLE)
Ay, many a day the straw-thatched cot
Shall echo with his glory!
The humblest shed, these fifty years,
Shall know no other story.

There shall the idle villagers
To some old dame resort,
And beg her with those good old tales
To make their evenings short.

"What though they say he did us harm?

Our love this cannot dim;
Come, granny, talk of him to us;
Come, granny, talk of him.

"
"Well, children--with a train of kings,
Once he passed by this spot;
'Twas long ago; I had but just
Begun to boil the pot.

On foot he climbed the hill, whereon
I watched him on his way:
He wore a small three-cornered hat;
His overcoat was gray.

I was half frightened till he said
'Good day, my dear!' to me.

"
"O granny, granny, did he speak?

What, granny! you and he?

"
"Next year, as I, poor soul, by chance
Through Paris strolled one day,
I saw him taking, with his court,
To Notre Dame his way.

The crowd were charmed with such a show;
Their hearts were filled with pride:
'What splendid weather for the fete!
Heaven favors him!' they cried.

Softly he smiled, for God had given
To his fond arms a boy.

"
"Oh, how much joy you must have felt!
O granny, how much joy!"
"But when at length our poor Champagne
By foes was overrun,
He seemed alone to hold his ground;
Nor dangers would he shun.

One night--as might be now--I heard
A knock--the door unbarred--
And saw--good God! 'twas he, himself,
With but a scanty guard.

'Oh, what a war is this!' he cried,
Taking this very chair.

"
"What! granny, granny, there he sat?

What! granny, he sat there?

"
"'I'm hungry,' said he: quick I served
Thin wine and hard brown bread;
He dried his clothes, and by the fire
In sleep dropped down his head.

Waking, he saw my tears--'Cheer up,
Good dame!' says he, 'I go
'Neath Paris' walls to strike for France
One last avenging blow.

'
He went; but on the cup he used
Such value did I set--
It has been treasured.

"--"What! till now?

You have it, granny, yet?

"
"Here 'tis: but 'twas the hero's fate
To ruin to be led;
He whom a Pope had crowned, alas!
In a lone isle lies dead.

'Twas long denied: 'No, no,' said they,
'Soon shall he reappear!
O'er ocean comes he, and the foe
Shall find his master here.

'
Ah, what a bitter pang I felt,
When forced to own 'twas true!"
"Poor granny! Heaven for this will look--
Will kindly look on you.

"