Eftsoons the picture passed away; Hours after, Peter woke To see a spectral streak of day Gleam in through fading smoke; Still slept old Govert, snoring on In most melodious numbers; No dreams of Eighteen Sixty-One Commingled with his slumbers. But Peter, from the farm-house door, Gazed doubtfully around, Rejoiced to find himself once more On sure and solid ground. The sky was somewhat dark ahead, Wind east, and morning lowery; And on he pushed, a two-miles’ tread, To breakfast at his Bouwery. TRANSLATION. TRANSLATION. JEAN PROUVAIRE’S SONG AT THE BARRICADE. “While the men were making cartridges and the women lint; while a large frying-pan, full of melted pewter and lead, destined for the bullet-mould, was smoking over a burning furnace; while the videttes were watching the barricades with arms in their hands; while Enjolras, whom nothing could distract, was watching the videttes,—Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, a few others besides, sought each other and got together, as in the most peaceful days of their student-chats, and in a corner of this wine-shop changed into a casemate, within two steps of the redoubt which they had thrown up, their carbines, primed and loaded, resting on the backs of their chairs, these gallant young men, so near their last hour, began to sing love-rhymes.... The hour, the place, these memories of youth recalled, the few stars which began to shine in the sky, the funereal repose of these deserted streets, the imminence of the inexorable event, gave a pathetic charm to these rhymes, murmured in a low tone in the twilight by Jean Prouvaire, who, as we have said, was a sweet poet.”—_Les Miserables: Saint Denis_, Book XII. Chapter VI. Do you remember our charming times, When we were both at the age which knows, Of all the pleasures of Paris, none Like making love in one’s Sunday clo’es; When all your birthdays, added to mine, A total of forty would not bring, And when, in our humble and cosey roost, All, even the Winter, to us was Spring? Rare days! then prudish Manuel stalked, Paris feasted each saintsday in; Foy thundered away; and—ah, your waist Pricked me well with a truant pin! Every one ogled you. At Prado’s, Where you and your briefless barrister dined, You were so fair that the roses, I thought, Turned to look at you from behind. They seemed to whisper: “How handsome she is! What wavy tresses! what sweet perfume! Under her mantle she hides her wings; Her flower of a bonnet is just in bloom!” I roamed with you, pressing your dainty arm, And the passers thought that Love, in play, Had mated, in unison so sweet, The gallant April with gentle May. We lived so coseyly, all by ourselves, On love,—that choice forbidden fruit,— And never a word my lips could speak But your heart already had followed suit.