“O Magali, and would’st thou stray, A wild bird wandering? I’ll take my gun and speedily Give chase to thee.” “For partridge or for warbler’s breed If thou thy snares would’st lay, Upon the vast and flowery mead As flower I’ll hide away.” “O Magali, if thou a spray Of blossom art indeed, The limpid brook then I will be And water thee.” “And if thou art the limpid brook, I’ll be a cloud, and heigh! I shall be gone, ere thou can’st look, To far Americay!” “O Magali, and though the way To furthest Ind you took, I’d make myself the wind at sea And carry thee.” “Wert thou the wind, by some device I’d fly another way; I’d be the shaft, that melts the ice, From the great orb of day.” “O Magali, wert thou a ray Of sunshine--in a trice The emerald lizard I would be, And drink in thee.” “And wert thou, hidden ’mid the fern, A salamander--nay, I’d be the full moon, that doth turn, For witches, night to day.” O Magali, would’st thou essay To be the moon, I’d learn A soft and silver mist to be Enfolding thee.” “But though the mist enfold, not so Shalt thou me yet waylay! For I a pure, fair rose shall grow And ’mid my branches sway.” “O Magali, and though you may Be loveliest rose, yet know That I the butterfly shall be Which kisseth thee.” “Go to! pursuer, thou’lt not win, Though thou should’st run for aye; For in some forest oak’s rough skin I will myself array.” “O Magali, though thou grow grey The doleful tree within, A branch of ivy will I be Embracing thee.” “And if thou dost, thou wilt embrace Only an oak’s decay, For in the convent of Saint-Blaise, A White Nun, I will pray.” “O Magali, when comes that day, There in the holy place Father Confessor will I be, And hark to thee.” “Pass but the gate, and in my stead Thou wilt find, well-a-day! The nuns all sadly busièd Me in my shroud to lay.” “O Magali, and if cold clay Thou make thyself, and dead, Earth I’ll become, and there thou’lt be, At last, for me.” “I half begin to think, in sooth, Thou speakest earnestly! Then take my ring of glass, fair youth, In memory of me.” “Thou healest me, O Magali! And mark how, of a truth, The stars, since thou did’st drop thy veil, Have all grown pale!” (Trans. Alma Strettell.)