Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/191

If this be old, so much worse for our youth,
What, what have they done that's better, forsooth?
"The Whaler," "The Circles," "Josaphat," and "The Night,"
Who loves not these pieces is a booby outright.
One eve—I remember that evening well,
Still haunts me his voice distinct as a bell,—
He recited "The End of the World"—to a set
Of friends dearly loved, among whom was Soumet;
And he took the word up at last—"On my faith,
If the world last, but as long as its death
Is certain to live—one may well be at ease."
And do you wonder that poems like these
Are not read now-a-days? Ah, think, my dear boys,
The world is distracted with tumult and noise,
And they never were read—no, never, my dears,
Though prompt to raise smiles and melt into tears.
Ah! If your father had deigned to desire
The bubble called fame, with his heart and his lyre
How easy for him 'twere'—my children, I hope
You'll give all this nonsense freedom and scope,
And errors respect that your mother console,
For love is their source, and love is their goal.
This matter affects me, my future is here,
To miss her sweet praise I feel such a fear
That now I enjoy it, or fain would at least,
As birds hail before-hand, the first streak in the east.
For deaf is the tomb by its nature; a word
Said above it may beneath not be heard.
No matter. Here with you my shade will remain,
And let me arrange the details in my brain;
The paradise my Muse builds is near you, my dears,
By the hearth that beholds my pleasures and tears.
When you make up your nests where I'd made mine,
Have the same leisure, and worship the Nine,