"That we, though far from her, are near, Yea, present, though in exile here?" Le rossignol qui du haut d'une branche se regarde dedans, croit etre tombe dans la riviere. Il est au sommet d'un chene, et toutefois il a peur de se noyer. CYRANO DE BERGERAC. The trees' reflection in the misty stream Dies off in livid steam; Whilst up among the actual boughs, forlorn, The tender wood-doves mourn. How wan the face, O traveller, this wan Gray landscape looked upon; And how forlornly in the high tree-tops Lamented thy drowned hopes! Paysages Belges BRUXELLES Hills and fences hurry by Blent in greenish-rosy flight, And the yellow carriage-light Blurs all to the half-shut eye. Slowly turns the gold to red O'er the humble darkening vales; Little trees that flatly spread, Where some feeble birdling wails. Scarcely sad, so mild and fair This enfolding Autumn seems; All my moody languor dreams, Cradled by the gentle air. Birds in the Night I You were not over-patient with me, dear; This want of patience one must rightly rate: You are so young! Youth ever was severe And variable and inconsiderate! You had not all the needful kindness, no; Nor should one be amazed, unhappily: You're very young, cold sister mine, and so 'Tis natural you should unfeeling be! Behold me therefore ready to forgive; Not gay, of course! but doing what I can To bear up bravely,--deeply though I grieve To be, through you, the most unhappy man. II But you will own that I was in the right When in my downcast moods I used to say That your sweet eyes, my hope, once, and delight! Were come to look like eyes that will betray. It was an evil lie, you used to swear, And your glance, which was lying, dear, would flame,-- Poor fire, near out, one stirs to make it flare!-- And in your soft voice you would say, "Je t'aime!" Alas! that one should clutch at happiness In sense's, season's, everything's despite!-- But 'twas an hour of gleeful bitterness When I became convinced that I was right! III And wherefore should I lay my heart-wounds bare? You love me not,--an end there, lady mine; And as I do not choose that one shall dare To pity,--I must suffer without sign. Yes, suffer! For I loved you well, did I,-- But like a loyal soldier will I stand Till, hurt to death, he staggers off to die, Still filled with love for an ungrateful land. O you that were my Beauty and my Own, Although from you derive all my mischance, Are not you still my Home, then, you alone, As young and mad and beautiful as France?