SOUVENIR

Translated anxl abridged from Alfred de Musset, by Sir Tollemache Sinclair. I hoped to weep, but thought my giief would cause much pain, In (lanng thee again to view, thou sacred spot, Ah! dearest tomb unknown — but ne'er by me forgot, A\Tiere sleeps a mem'ry vain.

Oh I let them fall, for they're to me most deir for

aye.

Those tears which my still wounded heart draws forth so fast, Ah ! leave them on my eyelids, do not wipe away

This veil of the bright past.

Full many other things I've seen fall 'neath the sun, Besides the leaves of trees — the foam of waves so long, The course of other things, than roses perfumes done,

And of dear birds the song.

My eyes have seen things, more funereal, and more dread, Than Juliet in her tomb cold after so much woe, More weird than e'en the toast to th'Angel of the dead

Once drunk by Romeo.

I've seen my only love, to me for ever dear, Become herself a whiten'd sepulchre quite dread, A living tomb, where relics sad appeared quite near.

Of my much cherished dead.

Of our sad love which in the still night, soft, unfurled. We'd nursed so dearly in our hearts quite free from doubt, 'TwdS far more than a life, alas ! it was a world,

Which now was blotted out.

Yes, young and beauteous still, more beauteous, some would say, I saw her, and her eyes did as of yore rejoice. Her charming lips unclosed, there was a smile quite gay,

And there was a dear voice.

But not that voice, that language pure, nor that dear grace, Those looks adored, fast joined with mine in love's chain bound, My heart still full of her long wandered o'er her face,

And her no longer found.

And yet I could have sprung towards her, I could have run

To clasp once more this void and icy breast at last !

1 could have cried aloud : what hast thou done, false one.

With our ecstatic past? All! 'Twas a frantic grief, which caused me many a tear, This gay farewell from a dead soul could not me bless. What matters it, — oh Nature, — oh my mother dear,

Ah! have I loved the less!

A thunderbolt may now fall on my blighted head. Ne'er can this mournful souvenir be torn from me, Like to the sailor crushed by tempests and half dead,

I clung to it, ne'er free.

I care not aught to know e'en if the fields now bloom. Nor what will happen to man's form in death asleep, Nor if these vast skies will tomorrow light 'midst gloom

That which is buried deep.

I only say at this hour and this place, my goal, I once was loved — I loved — she was most fair, I vow, I hide this treasure dear in my immortal soul,

To God I take it now.